


Oceans

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 26,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea





	1. Chapter 1

He had left everything to me: the flat, the two-seater, every last penny in the bank. There had been no explanation when the will was read, only my name, and an unlabeled key that had been left in the solicitor’s safe box. I had claimed ignorance when presented with the key, when of course I knew what it belonged to. In the corner of Mr. Wooster’s bedroom there is an old side table with a locked drawer. I had asked about it once, and he had told me that the key was lost, and the drawer empty. I must confess that my curiosity remained in regards to this matter, and I have, in the past, gone so far as to gently shake the table to confirm that it was, indeed ,empty.

That evening, I approached the table, and slipped the key into the keyhole. As I expected, it slid in easily and popped open the lock. It was a lovely piece of furniture upon close inspection, and it took me several minutes to find the release mechanism on the compartment hidden under the drawer. Prying up the edge, I found my prize: an envelope taped securely to the underside of the false bottom of the compartment. I sat with the letter, and it was not long before my fingers began to tremble, and my vision began to blur.

 

Jeeves,

If you are reading this, then I am gone, and I trust that you really are reading this because you, of all people, are clever enough to find this letter. I hid it so as not to implicate you, and the only reason that I risk writing this at all is so you can know what I was never brave enough to tell you. I can’t bear you never knowing, but I am too afraid to risk you leaving me again.

Since the day that you first came to me, I have felt blessed beyond reason, and happier than I’m likely to be in Heaven. I hope that I haven’t been much trouble to you, old thing. I know that I can be a handful. Everything I had is now yours, and, feudal spirit or not, I want you to accept it, to live your life to the fullest. Go to Cuba and catch all of their fish. Take a flat in Paris and stay out until dawn. Spoil all of your nieces. Do it, for me.

I’m not sure when I realized that I loved you. It seems like something that has always been a fact, like the sky being blue, the grass being green, aunts being ornery. It can’t be the case though, since it has been a mere seven years since we met. I needed you, and it somehow became more.

Forgive me for saying all of this, but you were everything this Wooster could ever want. You were the keeper of my home, a sympathetic ear, a strong spirit and a clever, scheming mind to counteract my own mental deficiencies. Many times I’ve daydreamed of taking you for my wife, impossible, I know, but if it were possible, oh, how I’d woo you and beg you to accept my ring and my name. These words probably disgust you, or perhaps merely amuse you with their foolishness. Still, I remain your fool, and yours alone,

Bertie

 

For eighteen months, Lady Worplesdon had contested the will, thwarted by Mrs. Travers, who testified to Mr. Wooster’s mental soundness and generous nature with her own legal expert. My own representative defended my character, for although I had not expected to be remembered so handsomely, I could not bear the thought that I might be seen as having had manipulated him for his money. I would have been more personally involved in these matters had my heart not been broken, had I not felt such shame and guilt at inadvertently being the cause of this feud between Mr. Wooster’s family. I avoided Lady Worplesdon as much as possible, and courteously declined Mrs. Travers’ offers of hospitality.

I did not leave the flat. It was too large for me alone, and too expensive to justify keeping, and yet I stayed. I was not ready to let him go, not ready to pack up his clothing, his books, his piano. I slept in the bed long after it ceased to hold his scent, played the sheet music propped upon the piano, pretending that it was his fingers bringing the notes to my ears. I do not think that I prepared a single meal in this time, preferring to eat and drink at the Junior Ganymede when I remembered to eat at all.

Long had I loved Mr. Wooster, yet it seemed an impossible love at the time, bound by my station as well as my sex. I served and advised him faithfully, and watched desperately for signs that he might welcome my advances. Brushing against my fingers, praising me fondly, a soft word or glance, all made me bolder, until he began to exhibit more obvious behavior. He became less difficult. He no longer opposed me in matters of dress, he agreed to more traveling, and he lingered in the bath, stretching his long, creamy leg up while I watched, exposing the soft skin of his inner thigh, maddeningly covered in soap bubbles at the point where I longed to trail hungry kisses.

My want for him grew until it was too much to bear. It was on the ship to New York where he first allowed me into his bed. It would be the last, and only, time.

It pains me to remember the events of that night. Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong, and there was no stopping the water that flooded the lower decks of the ship. Hundreds of lives were at stake, yet to me, there was only one. I shielded Mr. Wooster against the panicking crowd, and, murmuring reassurances to him, lowered him into the flimsy life boat as he clung to me in fear.

I remember a blunt pain and a loud noise as colors exploded behind my eyes, followed by a blackness that could have lasted seconds or days. I awoke in a sterile, white room, the back of my head sore and stitched, and a great panic filled me. I jumped to my feet, and searched every narrow bed in turn for him, but he was gone.

For months now, the nightmares consumed me. Had he suffered? Had he reached for me as the icy water claimed him, betrayed by my limp hands? Night after night I saw him die, each time more horrifically than the last. The worst dreams, however, were the peaceful ones, when he was happily at my side, only to be gone when my senses overtook me in waking. When I awoke, guilt and misery plagued my every moment.

I could not accept losing him, not without a fight. I saw the faces of the recovered dead, and failing to identify him, filed him among the thirty two missing. My heart caught in my throat each time I heard of bodies washing ashore, one by one, and each time I would frantically hurry to see if I could distinguish his features under the bloated mask of death that the corpses wore. Mr. Wooster remained missing, one of twelve men and two women.

The police seemed to wash their hands of the affair after a few months, telling me that the sea buries her own. Undaunted, I hired investigators to scour the seaside. It has amounted to little, and yet, I am unable to call off the chase. If he does not live, I feel the need to at least recover him, and bury him beside his departed parents. I have no right to lay beside him in his family plot, but perhaps someday, in death, my ashes might be spread over his grave. It is the best that I can hope for.


	2. Chapter 2

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Travers.” I opened the door with a welcoming gesture. “You didn’t have to come all this way.” Brinkley Court is roughly one hundred miles from London, and I felt a trace of guilt at how frequent her visits had become since Mr. Wooster’s death.

“If you would agree to come to Brinkley Court, I wouldn’t have to.” She retorted, handing me her hat and gloves.

I sighed. “It would be difficult for me.” I replied. Like so many things, we never discuss this outright, but Mrs. Travers seems to understand the awkwardness that would come over Brinkley Court and its servants were I to stay as a guest in Mr. Wooster’s stead, after being a servant for so long. An inheritance is truly a double edged sword.

“Yes, yes, I suppose.” She relented, accepting the brandy and soda that I offered her before taking a seat beside her.

“I trust that you have been well.” I began, courteously.

“I’ve been to see Sir Roderick Glossop.” Before I could voice my concern, she continued. “I told him what a frightful time I’ve had since losing my nephew. I told him I could barely sleep-“ at this point, she produced an amber glass bottle of pills- “and that often, my nerves were in such a state that I could barely function.” With these words, a second bottle of pills was produced, and pushed towards me.

“Mrs. Travers…” I raised my eyes from the neatly labeled bottles to face her.

She leaned back against the cushions of the Chesterfield. “You were good for the little blighter,” she said, firmly, “and judging by the state of you, he was good for you, too. It would ease my mind if you’d just take them.”

“Thank you.” I answered, softly. “It was generous of you to come all the way here because of me, madam. Might I at least give you luncheon?”

“In a moment.” She leaned forward, and gave a thoughtful glance at the open folder of files upon the desk. “I see that you haven’t given that up. Not that I thought you would.” There was a hint of sadness in her tone, but overall, it was one of admiration. I am often rebuked for my stubbornness by those who know me well, but Mrs. Travers seems to encourage it.

“I feel utterly unable to stop.”

“I’m glad of it.” She affirmed. “I think I’ve found something, rather, someone, who might be some help. Milady’s Boudoir has a section called “Modern Mysteries”. Women give accounts of crimes they have witnessed; burglars, kidnappings, extortion, that sort of thing. At the end of their story, a constable or detective explains how they solved the case. It’s mostly sentimental, sensationalist rubbish, but there’s this name that comes up in so many of the accounts- a Mr. Sidney Green. His specialty seems to be locating missing persons- errant husbands, lost children, escaped convicts, that sort of thing.” She paused to take a deep sip of her drink. “I’ve been thinking of how long this has gone on, what its put us all through… and I know that we’re all set on having a proper Christian burial. Surely, it can’t hurt to try.”

“I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Travers, but I have already employed Mr. Green some months ago. I fear that our case has not been one of his lauded successes, although he is fond of stringing one along optimistically.”

She seemed crestfallen by the revelation. “Surely, you can give him some time. He seemed so sincere and honest when we met.”

I thought of the ever growing piles of papers and photographs the investigation had generated. Once, he had even produced a beautiful boy who answered to the name Bertram, but it was not my love. The false hope had soured my outlook considerably.

“When I was a boy of thirteen, I worked in a country house as a page boy.” I refilled her glass as I spoke. “The hall was adjacent to a village containing a large school. As a servant, I made modest wages, but I longed to socialize with the boys in the village, mixing with them to sample confectioneries and drink ale. I was determined to live this life, so I developed a line of credit with certain noble boys and shop keepers, using the hall as my capital. You see, the girls at the hall were uncommonly pretty, and quite numerous, as the family was a large one, so the demand for invitations was quite high. I bartered invitations to the hall, as I was on good terms with the youngest son, and felt it within my power to arrange. Eventually, I needed something more substantial to sustain my tabs, so I negotiated my food and drink with tickets to a fete at the hall in late Autumn. What I failed to mention was that there was no fete in Autumn, not so much as a single cake.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Travers breathed. “You were running a scheme of that scale at the age of thirteen? For cakes?”

“Essentially, yes.” I felt properly shamed in retrospect, much as I had felt at the time.

“How did it all turn out?”

“Not favorably, I regret. Still, that is what youth is for, to make mistakes to learn from. The reason I bring this rather embarrassing tale to light is to explain my feelings regarding Mr. Green. I feel he is well intentioned, but lies take on lives of their own. By the time October came that fateful year, I had told the story of the fete so many times, embroidering the details ever so slightly each time to add additional allure, that I quite believed that it was going to take place, myself. So it is, I fear, with Mr. Green. If the remarkable accounts he submits to Milady’s Boudoir are true accounts, they are likely the minority of his cases, and very likely embellished. In my experience, he sells hope, not concrete results, but he undoubtedly is sincere. I do think that he honestly believes that he is close to finding Mr. Wooster even now.”

She was silent for a long moment. “You think this in your heart, Jeeves, and yet you still employ him.”

“What else can I do?” I asked, brokenly.

Her eyes darted across the room again, to the file, to the pills, and to my own tired eyes. “Well, then, I shall accept your kind offer to luncheon. Anatole informs me that Abigail’s Vineyard is a reputable establishment.”

“I would be delighted, madam.” I replied, rising to fetch her hat and her gloves.


	3. Chapter 3

I feel him against me, soft skin wrapped in silk pajamas , the faint brush of his stubble against my throat. His smile is gentle, his eyes are bright. He whispers silly, endearing things to me as his hands slide under my own clothing, wrapping long limbs possessively around me as we kiss. He can utter the most romantic drivel this side of the silver screen while looking into my eyes, but a mere word of a sexual nature makes him cast his eyes downward, and blush delightfully. I find myself rambling, telling him how I’ve missed him, how hopeless I was without him. I love him, I want him, and I could not say which emotion holds more power over my soul as I pin him under me. When I awaken, I am thrusting pathetically into the mattress, and the pillowcase is damp.

I am no longer startled by these abrupt realizations, but I am not yet immune to the ache of them. I bathed and dressed, and , still feeling lost, I took a pill and lit a cigarette. I tidied the flat, completing my morning routine, so much shorter without Mr. Wooster to look after.

Determined to clear my head, I headed out for a stroll, circling the park before browsing my favorite book seller’s shelves. I politely declined help, for I was not looking for anything to read today. I was looking for myself, for my sanity. It is calming to be surrounded by tall shelves of bound leather volumes, comforting to smell the ink and pulp of the stacks of paperback novels that crowd the entrance and bombard customers with their brightly printed jackets. A sense of peace overtook me, and in my improved mood, I purchased several gaudy paperbacks , intending to present them to my aunt at the next opportunity. Sending them back to the flat, I walked to the Junior Ganymede for tea, and let my mind wander to the problems of my colleagues, offering advice and lending a sympathetic ear. Today, I felt, was one of the better days, despite how it had begun.

It was a dangerous thought, one that I should not allow myself to indulge in before clicking the switch of the bedside lamp at night. It is particularly dangerous on days when you find yourself fighting the procession of the day’s events, becoming more hopeful with each setback. Nonetheless, I indulged, only to have my heart sink upon seeing Mr. Green waiting for me in the lobby of Berkley Mansions. I nodded to him in resignation, and invited him into the flat.

I poured two whiskey and sodas as he spread the contents of his attaché across the table. “I’ve spent this week interviewing people where that lost debris showed up last week on the shoreline. I have some hospital reports.”

I watched him spread them before me, listening to him make flimsy connections with great gestures of his hands. All the papers were like all of the ones before, a great pile of garbage that amounted to nothing but a wild goose chase that had long ago taken all the heart out of me. “I’ve had enough.” I hadn’t realized that I had spoken aloud until he ceased speaking and raised his eyes to me, slightly alarmed.

“I’m sure we’re closer, Mr. Jeeves.” He began. His manner seemed doggedly insistent, in line with what I have come to expect of him. I felt momentarily shamed for even considering giving up. He was talking again, comparing this case to another he’d solved and chronicled. I half listened, my fingers idly leafing through the files.

I mentioned before how irony loves to have its way , and it struck once more. I had only just determined that the new reports were so useless that even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t salvage an obscure clue from the rot, when I noticed a scrap of paper poking out of the inside pocket of the open case. I pulled it loose, and felt my heart drop to my stomach. It was Mr. Wooster’s handwriting, of that I was sure. I doubted my judgment and sanity for only a moment before slamming the ragged paper to the table and fixing Mr. Green with a steely glare. “Where did you get this?” I growled.

He paled, and the momentary look of horror was not lost on me. Quickly regaining his composure, he took the paper from me and hastily ran his eyes over it. “It’s a case study I wrote for a magazine.” he said, his manner obvious of one desperately trying to dismiss suspicion.

“This is not your handwriting.” I stood to my full height and fixed him with a stern glare. In retrospect, I realize he had never seen such a glare from me, having become accustomed to my far off, hopeless stare. “I am not a fool, Mr. Green. Tell me the entire truth.”

He actually looked frightened, his dark eyes widened and trembling. “I didn’t know.” He stammered. “I mean, not at first.”

I softened the tone of my voice, just a bit, but held my stern gaze. “What didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t know it was him until I saw the photograph, after I accepted the case. See, I was working on another case, finding a stolen pearl necklace, when I met this man. He was a scruffy looking thing, and a lazy sod to boot. John, he was called. He was working in the kitchen of the resort hotel I was staying in, peeling potatoes, running errands, that sort of thing, in exchange for a bed. I met him one night while sneaking down to the kitchen for a bite after missing dinner. He showed me where the pantry was, and we ate our pilfered meal together. He was full of questions, even back then, and I wound up telling him what I did for a living, foolish of me to divulge to a stranger at the scene of the crime, I know. He seemed genuinely interested, or maybe he just is the sort to make one feel interesting, to this day, I don’t know. There was just something about him. Maybe I was lonely, maybe a bit frustrated. So, I told him how hard it was, to establish oneself in this field , how every success is followed by ten failures, and how difficult it was to make a name. “He fidgeted with the buttons on his coat, and continued, in a fast rush of words.

“Applesauce!” says he, “Why don’t you make your own name?” I didn’t rightly understand, but he told me he’d help, for five bob. It was already a night for foolishness, and I found myself taken in by his charm. I gave him the money, and the next morning, he slips me a letter while clearing up the breakfast trays, and it’s a regular mystery story, just like in the magazines, but with me as the hero. He left me a note saying to give up on the damn pearl necklace and send the letter to the papers. It was published the next day. I gave him another five bob and he comes out with another incredible story, snapped up by the papers the week after. Suddenly, I was famous. Me, famous!

I took him back to London with me, offering him room and board, and half the money we made, and he agreed. I still took cases, but most of our money came from the stories. When I saw his picture, I suspected, but I told myself that it was a coincidence, must be dozens of chaps looking like that, even though I kept finding evidence that it was him that you were looking for. I didn’t want to lose him, Mr. Jeeves. This is the first thing in my life that’s ever really worked out.”

My emotions were going wild within me, joy at the news that Mr. Wooster was alive, anger at having been deceived for so long, and a desperation that I couldn’t quite describe. “Give him to me.” I said, firmly.

“But, Mr. Jeeves, I need him!” Mr. Green looked pathetic then, almost enough to warrant sympathy. Instead, I was freshly enraged. I spoke as levelly as I could.

“If you deliver him to me safely, I will give you five hundred pounds. If you refuse, I will expose you to the proprietress of Milady’s Boudoir and smear your name. I will then hunt you down and take him myself. Take the reputation you have made for yourself and sell your honest toil.” And if he is harmed, I thought, may God help you.

He stammered, and I gripped his shoulder, firmly. “I will not let you out of my sight.” I growled. “Bring me to him.” And this is how I came to be standing outside of a shabby flat across town, my heart racing wildly.

“John?” Mr. Green led me into the dismal place, furnished with the elderly spinster type who usually rented these rooms in mind.

Even so bedraggled, he was unmistakable, clear blue eyes shining from behind a scruffy beard and worn penny dreadful. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his ear on his left side, and his skin was lightly tanned. “Who’s that, then?” he asked, rising to his feet.

He didn’t know me. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I felt as though I might cry, from this horrible realization, and from joy, combined. I bowed my head. “Sir.” I began, my voice suddenly rough and raspy, “I am your faithful servant.”


	4. Chapter 4

I paid Mr. Green, and helped Mr. Wooster gather his meager belongings, mostly stacks of paperbacks, as I assured him that he had clothing enough at the flat. He needed the rags on his back for modesty, but I intended to destroy them almost immediately. I explained to him my duties, feeding him, bathing him, clothing him, tending to the flat and the finances, and any other minor task that might need attention. He listened in a dumbstruck awe.

“What do I do, then?”

I weighed the words in my mind. “You do as you wish, sir. You have many friends and relations that you visit quite frequently, but most of your time is taken up playing your piano, reading, and writing in the flat.”

He was beaming at his good fortune as I carried his battered suitcase into Berkley Mansions, but seemed mildly intimidated upon entering the flat. “We’re home, sir.” I said, placing down his bag.

His brow furrowed as he paced slowly around the flat, and stood beside the piano, tenderly caressing the lid. “I know this place.” Hs said, softly. “I’ve dreamed of it. I didn’t think it was real. You’re not lying about who I am, are you?”

“No, sir. This is our home. Let me draw your bath and tend to you.” I felt emboldened by this revelation. Surely, Mr. Wooster would regain his memories soon. Surely, it was shock, this lapse. Yet, he did not know me, the heart of his home, as he was wont to say. That phrase had always filled me with an arrogant pride, and I was saddened that I was not likely to hear it from his lips any time soon.

I drew the bath, and helped him out of his clothes, suppressing the part of myself which wanted to dispose of the clothing for another reason altogether. I ached as I saw that he had suffered yet more wounds, one on his left shoulder and another gash across his back, neatly stitched and healed into scar tissue.

“They say I got that at sea.” He said, noticing my worried stare. He sighed as he slipped into the hot water.

“Do you remember getting injured, sir?”

“No.” he arched his back and then slid down to his chin. “All I remember was being in the hospital, a little place run by the order of St. John. I played bridge and read Bible verses until I got better. The head nurse took a shine to me and got me the bed at the hotel. I had a gold watch with me, so I gave them the chain as payment. The rest of it is in my pocket, I kept it even though it was broken.” He seemed lost in the thought, and I pushed it, hoping to trigger his memory.

“That is your father’s watch, sir. I regret to tell you that he and your mother passed away when you were a child. It was very precious to you. I will see to having it repaired.”

He turned his head with a bit of a smile. I melted, just a little.“Just like that, Jeeves? You really do see to everything.”

I flushed with pride. “Thank you, sir.”

He rose from the bath, and I bundled him in towels. I urged him to sit, and began setting right more than a year and a half of hardship. I massaged his scalp and neck, digging my fingers into the areas that I knew gave him the most pleasure, and he sighed under me. I cut his hair, which was impossibly unruly, and manicured his hands. I knelt then, propping up his leg to cut his toenails and massage the arches of his feet. His eyes had slid closed in utter bliss, and I sneaked a glance up at him, at his slightly parted lips and the towel draping over his lap, barely hiding his awakening erection. It was almost enough to undo me, yet I was strong.

I busied myself with the shaving brush, and tilted his head back. Mr. Wooster’s fingers touched my hand. “I can do that, Jeeves.” He said, taking the blade, and surveying himself in the mirror. Of course, Mr. Wooster, trusting and sweet, thought nothing of baring his throat to me as I slid a straight blade over it. John, on the other hand, thought otherwise. He did not trust me. It should not have hurt as much as it did.

“Very good, sir.” I replied, busying myself with his clothing. A short time later, he was dressed in a soft heather gray suit and the blue ticked tie that made his eyes shine, and I could not help but smile at the vision before me.

“Well, I cut quite a dashing figure, if I do say so myself.” He admired his reflection and ran his hands over the fine fabric.

“You do, sir.” I worried then that I was dreaming again, that I would awaken to find him lost once more.

He followed me to the sitting room, where I mixed him a potent drink of my own invention, and he took it gratefully. “I have something to show you, sir.” I said, leading him to a locked storage trunk. I opened the latches, and gestured to the stacks of paper inside. “These are your manuscripts. Perhaps you will remember them.”

I left him mulling over the stacks of pages I had lovingly transcribed from his handwritten scrawl. I telephoned the butcher, ordering a fine cut of beef for the evening meal. I would spare no expense or effort. Mr. Wooster would have all of his favorite things that night, steak braised in butter, bread pudding with marmalade glaze, and a perfect cup of tea. I would sleep alone in my tiny bed for the first time in nineteen months, and I would awaken early to serve him, to mend the pieces of our life together into what it once was. Tomorrow, there were relatives and solicitors to call, memberships to renew, letters to write, and still no end in sight.

I would fix him, I swore silently. He would be mine once more, and all would be well. However, these thoughts lost their reassuring ring in the dead of night when I found myself curled into my small, cold bed in the servant’s quarters , while the love of my life slept a stone’s throw away, dreaming disjointed dreams that did not include me.


	5. Chapter 5

I plated Mr. Wooster’s breakfast: a soft boiled egg, two slices of toast cut into triangles with a pot of marmalade, four crisp slices of bacon, and of course, his morning tea. I arranged the tray , adding a bud vase for a single red rose, before bringing the tray to his room. Mr. Wooster was still asleep, his nose pressed into the pillow, his hair wildly tousled in all directions. For a moment, I gazed at him lovingly, taking in this precious sight which I was sure that I would never see again. My master, my lover, my friend; my dearest Bertram, once more sleeping and warm in the safety of our home. I set down the tray, and his eyes slid open, as if on cue. A momentary confusion clouded his expression, and then, an angelic smile, as he recalled his surroundings.

“Good morning, sir.” I said, reverently.

“Good morning, Jeeves.” He sighed, leaning back against the pillows with a luxurious stretch. I waited, and he said no more before he began his morning meal.

“It is a cool day, sir, with the promise of rain. Autumn hovers in the air.”

He glanced up at me. “Pardon?” he mumbled, around a mouthful of toast.

“You like to know these things in the morning, sir.”

“Do I? Well, then, by all means, Jeeves.” He continued chewing. He must have been ravenous, despite the meal I had presented him with the night before. I felt an ache of sympathy in my chest as I selected his clothing for the day, a tan Harris tweed ensemble with a burgundy silk tie.

“I have telephoned Mrs. Travers, sir. She is your favorite aunt. She will be coming here later this morning, as she is very anxious to see you again.”

“Dahlia.” He muttered.

My heart skipped a beat. “Yes, sir. Dahlia Travers. Do you remember her?”

He shook his head. “She was in the manuscripts.” He must have seen the light in my eyes die, for he then looked extremely disappointed.

“You will remember her, sir. She is not easily forgotten.” Certainly, I thought, more memorable than myself.  
…………………………………………………………

Mrs. Travers’ visit was cathartic for us both. She embraced Mr. Wooster, and then myself, and spoke to him intently, attempting to jog his memory. I prepared tea and sandwiches, and kept the visit running smoothly. Mrs. Travers asked me about the estate, and we agreed that it would be best if the money were to stay in my trust until he was well again.

Some time after she left, Mr. Wooster gave me a curious, somewhat worried look. “How much money do I have?” he asked.

“I will show you.” I responded, urging him to sit beside me at the desk. I retrieved his bank statement and his portfolio of stocks and bonds. He looked lost, which was nothing unusual. I explained the balances, and he repeated them after me, looking disturbed that so much money should be in one place at one time.

“Why is your name on the statement?” he asked, turning it over.

I sucked in my breath. “When we thought you were dead, the will was read, and I was the sole beneficiary. The older statements have both of our names listed because it is a joint account. You never cared for paperwork, so I paid the monthly bills and filed your taxes. They needed my signature.”

“I see.” He said, worriedly. “So it’s not really my money, is it? I mean, because you think I’ve got the jim jams. ”

“It is.” I said, emphatically. “Mrs. Travers thinks that it would be best to leave things as they are until you are once more settled in.”

“And who, pray tell, Jeeves, is Mrs. Travers to say anything about it? It’s bad enough that I have to trust you with these matters of being this Bertram chap. Tell me when you will sign it over to me again.” He huffed.

I sighed. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“You could just keep me here, under your rule, because I can’t remember.” He was looking more disturbed by the moment.

I set my jaw and looked him in the eyes. “I am not keeping you, sir. You keep me. You are still the master of this house. I must remind you that I actively sought you and willingly relinquish the bank account.”

“Except you’re not.” He pouted. “You and these people you claim I know …” he looked to be at a loss for words. “I have to keep you, don’t I, because you control everything.”

“Sir, I have no doubt that you will remember us.” I said, gently. “You will know then that I am nothing but your faithful man, and Mrs. Travers your closest relative.”

He shoved away his tray. “You bought me for five hundred pounds.” He snapped. “How am I to know I can’t be kept captive if I’ve already been sold once?”

“Sir, you do not understand.” The words were like a knife through me. “I would have given anything to have you home safely.”

“Draw my bath.” He growled. “Then get me a whiskey. No arguments, now. I’m the master, as you say.”

“Very good, sir.” I sighed. I set about my tasks, determined to show him that he was in a safe, welcoming environment.

He barely spoke all day, only occasionally snapping an order. By the time I tucked him into his bed, I began to worry that it was more than just a tantrum. In the past, these fits had lasted less than an hour. How long would he continue? Certainly all would be well if he remembered his life soon, but if he didn’t… I fought back the inevitable, chilling thought that I might have lost him, my dearest Bertram, forever.


	6. Chapter 6

For the next several days, Mr. Wooster kept to himself. He ate when I served him, and gave his thanks when I prepared a drink for him or drew his bath. He was reading his manuscripts, curled into his favorite chair, barely moving. His eyes peeked over the edges of the paper, stealing curious glances at me which I pretended not to detect. I watched him, askance, and waited for him to come to peace with his thoughts.

His voice became softer, friendlier, more in keeping with the man I had fallen in love with. I was preparing dinner one evening when he slipped into the kitchen, as he used to, and sat beside me.

“Jeeves.” He said, hesitantly.

“Yes, sir?”

“Those manuscripts… they are the truth, aren’t they?” His eyes were troubled, reflecting a soul anxious to be reassured.

“As you see it, sir. In your own words.”

He fidgeted with his cuff links. “In these stories… you always helped me.” His voice was small.

“Yes, sir. I always shall.” I placed the paring knife on the board and faced him.

“You would do the feudal thing for me, then. You’d be loyal no matter what I did.”

“I would, sir.” I replied. I attempted to condense the severity of my feelings into these three words. I would willingly give my life for Mr. Wooster. I knew well that I would serve him in hardship, I would lie for him, I would even kill for him, if need be. These feral feelings, however, are best kept to oneself in polite society, especially when the one I would give everything for was apt to be startled like a woodland fawn. He must learn to trust me, once again.

He gestured at the chicken I was deboning. “If I said that I wanted to eat lamb tonight, you would see to it.”

“Do you, sir?” I asked.

He bit his lip. “No, no, Jeeves. Chicken is fine, just spiffing, really. But if I wanted my money, you would give me some?”

“It is yours.” I replied. “I can give you all you might use. Soon, you will be familiar with this life again, sir, and I will sign it over. I know that it is yours, sir. I am only handling the somewhat unpleasant matters of the paperwork.”

“Nothing could make you act against me, then. Nothing could break your loyalty.” He stated it, yet his eyes posed it as a question.

“Nothing, sir.” It was then that I felt his fingers on my thigh.

“Sir…” I whispered. Surely, I was dreaming.

His voice was low, and a bit gravelly. “You would stay loyal to me if told you I would have you?”

My eyes slid shut. “Yes, sir. Please, sir." and abruptly, his hand was removed.

There was a new emotion expressing itself across his sweet features. It was fear. He rose to his feet, and scuttled out of the room. I realized then that he had been bluffing. I had damaged what little I had cultivated, perhaps beyond repair. I sat with my head in my hands, desperately attempting to marshal my thoughts. I had let lust impair my judgment. Unable to effect a solution, I returned to the practical matter of peeling potatoes.

………………………………………………

Mrs. Gregson arrived the following afternoon, and only addressed me to say that she had spoken with Mrs. Travers about the money. Her manner seemed snider than usual, no doubt she thought she was getting the better of me by stating, once more, that the money was no longer to be mine. I betrayed no emotion either way, and served as a mute fixture.

Mr. Wooster seemed bewildered by this new development in his circle of acquaintances, and he seemed nervous. No doubt, he had been strongly affected by what he had written concerning Mrs. Gregson in the past. There was also her direct manner in speaking to him, as though amnesia was no excuse for him to betray ignorance or weakness of any kind.

“Dreadful woman, what?” he asked, as the door was safely closed behind her. “I say, Jeeves, she was a bit rough on you.”

“Not at all, sir.” I replied. “I am accustomed to Mrs.Gregson’s ways.”

He indulged me in a soft smile, then. “You really are a singular sort of chap, Jeeves.”

It was the first compliment I had received from his lips since recovering him. A warmth spread inside of me. Happiness, I realized, belatedly. It was troublesome to not recognize happiness. Had I forgotten?

He took his seat at the piano and tinkered with a few keys. “Do you still look in at the Junior Ganymede, Jeeves? There’s a lot about them in the manuscripts.”

“Not since your return, sir.” I replied. “I felt much too anxious. I was needed here.”

“Ah.” He played a few bars of a long forgotten tune, and straddled the bench to face me. “I never did apologize for being so bally wretched to you. Why don’t you go to the club tonight? There’s still that roast in the kitchen from this afternoon. I’ll fend for myself.”

“Thank you, sir.” I must confess that I felt quite sanguine, despite the difficult situation we found ourselves in.

…………………………………………

When I returned from the Junior Ganymede, Mr. Wooster was pacing. I didn’t have a chance to ask him what was bothering him before he slammed a piece of paper down on the table. It was the letter he had left me in his will.

“You were in my room.” I was, for once, quite stunned. Mr. Wooster thought nothing of lounging about the kitchen, but my rooms were always something he considered to be private, owing to his Code, I always assumed. Evidence of the changes in him rattled my senses.

“I know it wasn’t something one should do.” He blustered, but asserted himself again. “I was trying to remember, you know. Then I find this. I… I was going to trust you, and then I find this forgery.”

“It is no forgery, sir.” I whispered. “You left this letter behind. I do not pretend to be worthy of it. I do not expect you to feel the way you once did.” I knew this was a lie the moment the words left me. Of course, I had expected him to love me still, it was to my bitter disappointment that he did not.

A long, painful silence followed as Mr. Wooster chewed on his lip, looking to me with red eyes. “But... if it’s not a forgery… I said I would beg for you. I said I loved you.”

“I know.” I sighed. “Perhaps, once, you did, sir."

“…I can’t remember you.” And with that, Mr. Wooster’s tears began to flow. I hurried to his side and offered him my handkerchief. He clung to me, and sobbed, his shoulders heaving piteously. I rubbed his back in a soothing, circular motion, and soon enough he was spent.

“Would you like some tea, sir?” I asked, gently. He nodded. I led him to the kitchen and he took his place at the table, with a sigh.

“What now?” he asked, timidly.

“Now, you will drink your tea.” I would not, could not push him, no matter how much I longed for him. It had to be his decision.


	7. Chapter 7

Mr. Wooster continued his introverted routine, reading his manuscripts, pausing mostly to eat or bathe. The flat was quiet, and I longed for his long winded banter and the tinkling of the piano keys. It was good for him to become reacquainted with his life through reading, however, it was essential to have the experience as well. It was with this in mind that I made a telephone call to Brinkley Court one fine morning.

“Sir.” I interrupted him. He gazed up from his morning reading. There was a small notebook at his side in which he was writing names and other small details.

“Yes, Jeeves?” His eyes were bright and peaceful.

“I think it would be an excellent idea to see your friends again. I have spoken with Mr. Glossop, who is betrothed to your favorite cousin, Angela. He wishes to dine with you this afternoon.”

Worry replaced the peaceful expression. Mr. Wooster had never been shy. I wondered why he would suddenly shrink from social interaction.

“Very good, Jeeves. Where shall we dine?”

“You shall meet at the Drones club, sir.” I straightened the stack of papers on the side table. “You have many friends who have missed you.”

“Will they be disappointed, I wonder?” He sighed.

“On the contrary, sir. You are well loved among your friends and acquaintances, and they will be overjoyed to see you alive and well.” I handed him a drink, one of my own concoctions which he often claimed revived his strength. He sipped it, somberly.

“Sir.” I began, touching his shoulder, “What is troubling you so?”

“The thought of making so many friends.” He replied. “They all seem to be such lovely chaps in these stories.”

“If I might hazard the suggestion, sir, you are a good man, and a good friend. You are more than equal to the challenge. You must remember, they already consider you their friend.”

“I’m not used to having many friends, you know.” He gazed wistfully at the manuscript in his lap.

“Sir?” I honestly hadn’t thought much of it one way or the other. Mr. Wooster is sweet and generous, and so tends to have amiable companions in all walks of life, in all places. I had assumed that he had charmed all that had surrounded him in the past year, and hadn’t wondered why he hadn’t anyone from this other life concerned about him since he came back to the flat.

“Not many, Jeeves. Sid didn’t like me disappearing at all hours, you know, and that’s when anything interesting happens.” He shrugged, and sipped his drink.

I felt a surge of jealously rip through my chest at the mention of the man. “You let him control your life, sir.” Protecting his investment, no doubt.

Mr. Wooster shrugged. “Not really. He was just looking out for me. I have no sense, you know.”

“You have more than enough sense, sir.” I was furious at whatever had been done to him to make him so vulnerable and hesitant. I felt pained that I had failed to protect my precious charge.

“If I’d had any sense, I wouldn’t have gotten on a sinking ship.” He laughed. “Well, I don’t like to row, and I didn’t want to go to the low places he went to, so I would just stay home quite a bit.”

“You had disagreements, sir?” This relieved me, somewhat.

He nodded. “Mostly about the money, you know. He would get the money, and sometimes he’d take a bit off the top before I saw my share. I’d always think he was an all right sort of Johnny until he’d do something like that, you see. He used to spend it on cheap girls he’d bring back to the flat. I never liked that, either. A man shouldn’t … I mean, they weren’t even married. You just don’t do that to a girl.” He curled his lip in distaste.

“I see.” I said, gently. “I assure you, sir, that your true friends are gentlemen in every respect of the word. You will enjoy the club.” With this encouragement, he smiled, and rose to allow me to dress him.

An hour later, I walked him to the Drones club. He gave me a sidelong look. “I wish you could come with me.” He grinned wistfully.

“It is not my place, sir.” I said, gently. “I will return for you soon enough.” I was so proud, then, to know that it was me that he trusted. Still, he must get by on his own in society once more.

Mr. Glossop was in the doorway of the Drones club, conversing with Mr. Forthingay-Phipps. “Why, Bertie!” the later exclaimed, “How was America?"

I winced. Mr. Glossop took Mr. Wooster’s arm. “Why, Hello, Bertie. Jolly good to see you. They’ve done the most succulent beef roast today, come on, then.”

I met his eyes, and they reassured me. Silently, I thanked him, and as Mr. Wooster disappeared into the building, I left to dine at the Junior Ganymede. Some time later, I walked back to the Drones Club. I waited, apprehensively, for Mr. Wooster.

He soon stumbled out to meet me, a wide smile on his face, and an intoxicated blush on his cheeks. He grasped my arm to steady himself. “You were right, Jeeves.” He grinned. “These are really the right sort of chaps.”

“I am delighted to hear that you agree, sir.” With each minor success, more and more of Mr. Wooster’s true self revealed itself to me. I held out a hand to steady him, and he leaned on my arm. “Shall I hail a cab, sir?” I asked, after a moment.

“No, no, Jeeves, I can walk.” He straightened his tie and jacket, and began to amble away.

“Sir...” I hastened after him. “Our home is in the other direction, sir.” I said, in a hushed tone.

“I know.” He said, brightly. “We’re not going home. Not yet.” Bewildered, I followed him.   
“I wanted to take you out someplace, to thank you.” He explained. “You’ve been… more than feudal to me, Jeeves. Since I can remember, never mind all you did before that. The chaps at the Drones are fond of you, you know. They told me all sorts of things about you. From what I understand, I’m lucky.”

“That is very kind of them to say, sir.” I wondered just what they had said, but I wasn’t about to pry. The praise he gave me warmed me, and made it difficult to think of much else.  
Mr. Wooster was leading us across town, towards the neighborhood he used to inhabit. I stuck closely to his side, feeling suddenly wary in our surroundings. Mr. Wooster led me to a pub, which was much cleaner and friendlier than the outside had led me to believe.

“I understand that you’re not allowed to bring servants to the Ritz.” He chuckled, and sat across from me. “This place will do for now, won’t it?” He seemed oddly concerned about my opinion of this place, a place, it turned out, that he felt rather fondly about during his life as John. Hope sprung forth in my chest. Was Mr. Wooster attempting to court me? It would seem so, but I decided that it was best to not get my hopes up.

“It is a fine choice, sir.” I declared. He smiled at me. Where we were didn’t matter, after all. I was with him.


	8. Chapter 8

I have always been drawn to noble men, elegant and graceful in their expensive finery, blue blood flushing their cheeks with carefree delight. Such men were satisfying to gaze at, yet I had never vied for their affection. They were out of my class, and if they looked twice at me at all, it would be as a plaything that they could soil and discard; and I do have my pride, as much as these young men have their arrogance. That was before I met Mr. Wooster, when every shred of good sense I have ever held regarding the possibility of taking a noble lover deserted me.

I was cautious, of course. I admired him, and it wasn’t long after we met that I was fighting to keep him, taking risks that could have easily cost me my position. I pushed him, bit by bit, to see how much of him I could have, and one day, he stopped pushing back. He was firmly under my control, and happier for it. I knew then that I would never abandon my post, or my gentleman.

He was not like the others. Mr. Wooster was kind, gentle, and amusing. He was intelligent enough to be interesting and foolish enough to be manipulated. He was not the type of man who would star in the cinema pictures. He was, perhaps, the charming sidekick of the hero, giving his all with no recognition. This made him all the more endearing to me, and, as I contemplated him awkwardly wrinkling his nose as he sniffed a cup of coffee one afternoon, I felt the weight of my feelings descend upon me. He was my ideal. Something beyond my understanding, luck, fate, or coincidence, had led me to this man, who would become mine, of this I felt quite certain. In all of the world, there was only him. From that moment on, I was hopelessly tied to him.

Having lost him once made having him again all the more precious. At this moment, he was singing in the bath, his light baritone echoing off the tiles. I was changing his bed linen, and paused to inhale the faint scent of him against the pillowcase. His scent is indescribable, a breath of which triggers memories of intimacy, of warm blankets and confessions and heady lust as much as tea, and bacon, and country houses.

I realized that the song had ceased, and I finished my task quickly, to return to him.

Having dressed him for the day, I tidied the bath and prepared him a drink. He had gravitated towards the piano, and was playing an old favorite of his, a ghastly music hall comedy song, made bearable only by the fact that it brought him such amusement. I placed the drink on the piano lid before him, and an odd expression crossed his wide blue eyes, his mouth opened slightly, and his nose wrinkled in exactly the way that made me want to cover it in kisses.

“I say!” He exclaimed, looking from the glass, to myself. “Put that down again, will you, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“The glass, Jeeves. Try that again.”

I removed the glass and placed it beside him once more, and he emitted a disappointed sigh.

“Sir?”

“I almost had it, Jeeves.” He groaned. “For a moment there, I almost remembered something. It was as if I had seen you place that glass there a thousand times before, only I knew it, instead of just knowing about it.”

“Déjà vu, sir.” I replied.

“No, no, not quite. Almost, Jeeves, but not quite. I remember this piano the most. Of all the things I could remember, it’s something that doesn’t expect me to.” He fell into a glum silence then.

“Perhaps there is something about music that triggers your memories, sir. I was reading an article in Modern Science which suggested that all of the senses trigger long stored memories, the senses of hearing and smell being particularly powerful in this respect.” This had been on my mind , of course. An idea began to take shape. “Perhaps we could use this approach to help you, sir.”

Mr. Wooster stood, and sniffed the cocktail. He gazed about him, and his eyes fell on me. “I want to remember.” He muttered, and before I could brace myself, he had shoved his nose into my collar. I was frozen in my place, his proximity making me ravenous with lust, yet unable to do anything about it.

The doorbell buzzed, sending a jolt through us both, distracted from the moment at hand. I was both relieved and annoyed. I strode into the sitting room quickly, for the visitor had become agitated, pressing the button firmly to produce a uniform, nerve shattering peal of bells.

I opened the door, and suddenly the bells seemed quite quaint and harmless, for before me stood Mrs.Gregson.


	9. Chapter 9

Mrs. Gregson handed her hat and gloves to me, shooting me a short, disdainful glare, and bustled into the flat, pushing Mr. Wooster towards the sitting room before taking a seat on the edge of a chair. “Bertie.” She said, her voice booming and direct, arresting Mr. Wooster’s attention. “Sit.” He obeyed, looking to me with wide, panic stricken eyes. I gave him the briefest sympathetic glance before assuming my duties, retreating to the kitchen to bring the tea pot. Unfortunately, this required that I prepare the tea, which meant that I was, for the moment, out of earshot. I hurried, and, upon entering the room, I observed how pale Mr. Wooster had become. He was stammering objections.

“-But, dash it, Aunt Agatha!” he cried. He splayed his hands incredulously and put his pleading eyes to mine.

“Do be quiet, Bertie.” She sighed, taking the cup and saucer from my hands without actually seeming to acknowledge my existence. “And do watch your language, it is atrocious. This is for your own good.”

“But… but Roderick Glossop is horrid. He’s a quack of the first order!” Again, he pleaded his case with his eyes, and I held my tongue.

“So, you remember Sir Roderick, and nothing else, then?” She asked, with an impatient, arched eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe, dear child. Who has been feeding you such nonsense?” For a brief moment, her eyes fell on me, and flitted back to her nephew’s face.

“I read about him.” He frowned. “My own words. Lucky thing I kept notes, too, or I’d go into this wretched ordeal trusting him.” He shuddered.

“It seems that I have made a grave mistake in leaving you here alone, Bertie.” She added. “All alone, with no one to guide you to your proper place in the world, no one to see that you resume your life as intended.”

“I appreciate it, aged relative, really I do, but I’m not alone.” He said, attempting to sit up in a straight, reassuring manner. “Aunt Dahlia has been with me. I have Jeeves.” He added. It was, perhaps, the worst thing he could have said. She stood, and looked down her long nose at him. It would seem that he had touched on an exposed nerve. Mrs. Gregson’s fingers tightened on her tea cup, and she set her strong jaw in displeasure.

“Dahlia is not the head of this family.” She sneered. “You, and she, would do well to remember that. Dahlia never had sense enough to look after herself properly, let alone anyone else, and Jeeves is a servant.” She spat the last part, indicating me with a sudden, wild gesture that somehow managed to look severe and graceful despite its spontaneity. “He is not family. He is nothing. Perhaps you were gullible enough to be taken in by him in the past. You are a foolish, frivolous thing, so it can hardly be helped, I suppose, but you will not continue to disgrace the family name by allowing your personal affairs to be run by a mere…” She looked me over, from head to toe, in one quick motion, and wrinkled her nose, just a little, just enough to notice if you were to look for it. Deciding that she did not know a word that was both demeaning enough to describe me while being proper enough for a society woman to speak, she redirected her wrath to Mr. Wooster.

“You will see Sir Roderick this afternoon.” She pressed a card into his hand. “You will thank me for this, Bertie. This is what you need.”

“But-“ he protested, stunned into silence by her outburst.

“Do be quiet!” she snapped, and he obeyed, looking downwards, meekly. “You will go to see Sir Roderick, Bertie. If you do not, I will hear of it, and you will regret it.” He nodded then, not doubting her words. I fetched her hat and gloves, and bowed slightly as I opened the door for her, and in a moment, she was gone. My nerves were shaken, but I did not betray a trace of it. I looked instead to Mr. Wooster, who was still trembling on the settee.

“Sir.” I poured him a cup of tea, and urged him to take it. His long fingers curled around it, and he stared at the amber liquid gloomily.

“You’re not just… just…” He curled in on the steaming cup.

“I know, sir.” I said, quietly. “I am grateful to serve you.” He was, perhaps, a bit out of practice. Mrs. Gregson’s visit had rattled him as though he were still a child.

“I should be grateful, Jeeves.” He took a long swallow of the tea and sighed. “I’m such a coward.”

“Not at all, sir.” I replied. “Mrs. Gregson is a formidable woman, and she is your family.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.” He sighed. “Even if it’s not true… thank you, old thing. I suppose I shall have to go.” He turned the card over in his hands, gingerly.

“It would be for the best, sir.” I agreed.

…………………………………………

That evening, as I was finishing preparations for his dinner, Mr. Wooster returned. He looked disturbed, and took his seat silently.

“Sir.” I placed his meal before him. He looked up at me, and then down to his plate.

“Jeeves.” He began, but did not continue.

“Sir?”

“Would you… sit with me? Take a meal with me, I mean.” he looked up to me, uneasily.

“If that is your wish, sir.” Mr. Wooster never had his dinner with me at home, nor his breakfast. Tea was the only meal we shared, as he ate in the kitchen. I set a second place, and joined him, anxiously.

“Jolly good of you to make a roast today, old thing. It’s not even Sunday.” He poked the slice of beef and gravy with a fork.

“I assumed that you would be in need of a comforting meal.” He looked so lovely in the light of the candles between us. It illuminated his golden hair, and made his eyes shine, as though he were a gilded angel. I sat, stunned by the realization that I had imagined such a meal for so long, and the problem between us was all that was keeping me convinced that it was occurring in reality and not a dream.

“Roderick Glossop doesn’t know what to do with me.” He sighed. “I’m a hopeless case. He didn’t say that, of course, but you know how it is. He asked me so many questions, and none of them had to do with losing my memory. Just looking at bally ink blots and asking me questions about my past that I don’t remember. He wanted me to go to his hospital, but I drew the line there. I’ll go see him, I say, but I’m not some dangerous criminal that needs locking up and looking after. Aunt Agatha can’t complain about that, can she? I mean…"

“It is frightening, sir.” This was what he so desperately wanted to say, but could not admit.

He nodded. “I wouldn’t leave this flat. I wouldn’t go to that ghastly place without you there. Jeeves…” he glanced at me, nervously. “Tell me, will you. My letter said that I loved you, and I know that I probably did, or else I was a fool. I mean, you’re so good to me, and quite handsome. Wouldn’t it be easier if we just pretended that nothing had changed? Take me to bed, and all. It’s a shame to make you sleep in the servant’s quarters if you’re not used to it. I mean to say, well maybe I won’t remember, but you can keep the money. It would be easier that way. That is… if you ever loved me, that is. I’m assuming, you know. You don’t have to, of course. Just… just take care of me, and I’ll do anything you ask.” His cheeks burned with the embarrassment that had so endeared him to me in his moments of passionate confessions.

I sat, stunned, for a moment or two. I wanted nothing more, of course, and yet…

“Not like this, sir.” I said, softly. “I would not, could not, do that to you. I will always take care of you, you must not fear that I would do otherwise.”

“I see.” He lowered his eyes to the plate before him. “Bally stupid of me to think...” He stood, pushing his plate away. “I’m for bed, old thing. You can take the night off, why don’t you. Go to the club or something.” He scurried to his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. I found I had lost my taste for the fine meal I had prepared, so I cleared the table, and took his advice, heading to the Junior Ganymede for a sorely needed restorative.


	10. Chapter 10

After shopping for the evening meal one day, I returned to the flat to find Mr. Wooster once more absorbed in his manuscripts. I had left him at the Drone’s club that morning, and was surprised to see him back so soon, hunched over his desk and surrounded by paper. “Good afternoon, sir.” I said, placing down my basket to prepare him a drink. “Are you not feeling well today, sir?”

He peered at me over the sheaf of paper with a slight smile. “I’m fine, old thing, really. Just thought I’d spend some time reading and writing and such.”

Mr. Wooster read his manuscripts every day, attempting to make sense of his former life, but I had not seen him attempt to write since his return. “You feel able to continue writing, sir?” I asked, gently. I wondered how he was crafting his ordeal into his usual lighthearted prose.

“I tried.” He sighed, pushing back a lock of his dark golden hair. “I thought, if I could write down everything about the past year, I could make it a chapter of my life that I could just close, but It’s just not turning out that way, Jeeves. There’s so much that I can’t…” he sighed. “I started writing a mystery instead.” He said. “Jolly good things, mysteries. Takes the mind off so much.”

He wandered to the Chesterfield and sat, motioning for me to sit beside him. Gingerly, I sat, and turned myself towards him. “Does it help you, writing about Mr. Green, sir?”

A sad expression passed over his eyes. “I don’t think I’m writing about him, anymore. I need a hero though, don’ t I? Perhaps I’ll write about you.” He blushed a bit as he said this, making my pulse race.

“I’d like to hear the story, sir.” I replied, deliberately avoiding the topic.

Again, he smiled that bittersweet grin that I had grown so used to in recent weeks. “It takes place in America.” He said, a slight gleam of excitement in his eyes. “A millionaire falls in love with his maid, but he tells no one. See, it turns out that the maid was sent by the Black Hand to infiltrate his affairs, and after securing his fortune, to kill him. This man loves the girl so bally much that when he sees that he is going to die, he begs a few moments to write a suicide note so that the girl won’t be blamed for his death. It’s almost a pity that she has to get caught in the end, you know. Sentimental stuff.”

I shivered. This was indeed darker storytelling than I was used to coming from him. “It is a powerful tale.” I said, quietly. “Why would you regret justice being served, sir? You used to stay up half the night to read of the scoundrel’s capture.”

Mr. Wooster looked down, and nervously wined his fingers together. “I would do the same, if I were in his place. If you trust someone with your heart, your life, and everything else, and it turns out to be a lie… I’d rather not live in a world like that. I’d still want to protect… “

Mr. Wooster was shaking slightly, his misery suddenly apparent. I touched his chin gently, raising his gaze to mine. “I would never betray you, sir.” I whispered, my voice gone husky with the strain of emotion I felt.

The sadness in his eyes faded into a soft glow of trust and comfort. “Such a marvel.” He breathed.

Mr. Wooster shifted, so that he was leaning against my chest, and as I struggled to control my breathing, he tilted his face up towards mine. “Oh, Jeeves… I want to trust you. I want to trust you with everything. I want so much to remember…” suddenly, his lips were on mine, and all Hell broke loose in my soul. I pulled him onto my lap, and delved into his mouth with a low, desperate groan, tasting what I had dreamed of for so very long. My need was now at fever pitch, and I knew that if I wasn’t strong, if I wasn’t painfully strict with myself in the next few, precious seconds, I would violate that trust I had cultivated between us and lose control, taking all of him without a further thought in my mind until my desire was fully sated. It was with a howl of loss that I pushed him from me, biting my lip against the painful throbbing of my erection.

Mr. Wooster’s kiss swollen lips played at my throat. “Please.”

“Sir…” I stood, barely able to keep my balance. “If you proceed, sir, I cannot be held liable for my actions. Please go. Please, before I lose…”

He had stood, and advanced towards me, until he had backed me into the wall. “I am not a child, Jeeves. Just because I don’t remember, it doesn’t mean that I don’t know what I want.” He pouted. His thigh leaned into my erection, grinding it against my body in a slow, circular motion.

“Stop.” I whispered. “It’s too soon, I’ll only hurt you…”

“You would never hurt me.” His cheeks were red, and he looked down, in that shy way that always preceded…

“If you don’t want me, I’ll understand. But I’m willing to do any-"

I shoved him hard, and he stumbled backwards.

“Not. Like. This.” I growled. “I have told you once before, I will not take payment for protecting you. I would never betray you, sir, but a man has limits, sir, and I am not so strong. Please. Stop. This.... this is too much for me, sir.” Senseless babble, but I am shocked that I even managed to form actual words.

I will never know how I managed to be so strong. I dashed out of the building, forgetting my hat, and ran. My body ached with want, and it was pure repetition that enabled my legs to bring me to the Junior Ganymede. Minutes later, I had secured a room, and fled up the back staircase to lock myself in. I shed my coat and shoes, and collapsed on the narrow bed, taking deep breaths as I stared at the cracks forming in the decorative plaster ceiling.

I steadied my breathing, and tried to think of things that would dissipate my desire. Image after image proved powerless, and conjuring a memory of Mrs. Gregson’s cold, accusing stare only led me to focus on blue eyes that shone like the icy winter sky, eyes that she shared with her breathtaking nephew. It was too much to bear. I felt a flush of shame as I tugged my cock from my trousers and stroked, remembering his parted pink lips, imagining them engulfing me. I remembered Mr. Wooster’s wet skin in the bath, his hands along my sides, legs spread, his strained voice begging me to fuck him in the small ship’s cabin. I tightened my hand and quickened my pace, until, at last, I reached my peak, and my thoughts and body were my own again.

I closed my eyes tightly and told myself that I had done the right thing. I had spared him my lack of control. He would never look on me as a monster, taking from him in exchange for safety and affection. I should have been proud, but all I felt was the ache of regret, for I loved him desperately, and wished to be in his arms instead of alone in a let bed.

I dressed again, and splashed my face with cold water. I knew that I had to face him soon, and I was debating if a stiff drink would do more to strengthen my resolve than weaken it, when there came a sharp knock on my door.

I opened it to find the club secretary looking grim. “Telephone call for you, Mr. Jeeves. It is Mr. Wooster, and he says it is urgent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miles.” I managed, and made my way to the small room where the private telephone was kept. I shut the door, and picked up the receiver with no small bit of apprehension.

“Jeeves?” His voice was small and worried.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m so glad I found you, old thing. Please, come home. I’m so sorry.” The meekness in his tone was pitiful.

“I shall be home directly, sir. “ I assured him. “I am sorry, as well. We have to have a serious discussion sir, please. We cannot continue in this fashion.”

“You’re right.” He sniffed. “Just please, come quickly. I love you.”

“And I, you, sir.” I whispered, gathering my strength.


	11. Chapter 11

I stopped by the side of the road to purchase a bouquet of cabbage roses for Mr. Wooster, knowing that the gesture would soften him. The short walk seemed to take no time at all, and I felt my nerves begin to fray as I entered the lift and finally faced the front door. I opened it to find Mr. Wooster pacing, a distraught shadow over his dear, sweet features.

“Jeeves.” He croaked, brokenly. I presented him with the flowers, and he grinned, hope beginning to dawn on him. “You forgive…?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” I assured him. “My behavior was quite unacceptable, sir.” He placed the flowers onto a side table and pulled me against him in a tight embrace. I returned it, sighing into his hair.

“I do love you, old thing.” He mumbled against me. “I don’t know how to prove it, but you’re dashed well everything to me. I couldn’t face all of it alone.” Again, that quiet sniffle.

“It does not need proving, sir.” I replied, stroking back his hair. “I never stopped loving you for a moment. “ I broke the embrace to lead him to the settee, urging him to sit beside me. He leaned against me instead, draping my arm over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand. I thought I could see it all in your eyes, what you wanted; but you won’t take it.” He looked away. “Why?”

“I do not want to lose your trust, sir. I cannot hurt you, or use you. You need stability, sir.” There was so much more I wished to say, but I knew not where to begin.

“I like that.” He murmured, touching the hand that was stroking his hair. “This feels stable to me. I used to dream of being held like this, you know. A big, strong man holding me like I was something precious.” He sighed, wistfully. “Was it a memory, Jeeves? Did you always hold me like this?” He squeezed my arm, possessively.

“Only for one night.” The words dredged up painful memories. “You were my treasure that once, before the sea took you from me.”

“Only once?” he asked, quietly surprised. “It’s got such a hold on me, Jeeves.“

“I wished it to be more than once.” I assured him.

“All that dreaming, from one night.” He sighed. “All the nightmares, too.”

“Nightmares, sir?” A fresh worry settled over me.

He nodded. “I remember how cold the water was. You helped me down, didn’t you, and you didn’t hear when I cried out to you. I saw the metal sheet come down, and I reached for you, but you weren’t moving, and my hand came back with so much blood… “ His eyes filled with tears. “I thought you were dead…”

“Sir, you are remembering.” No matter how horrific those memories were, I had to encourage them.

“Yes, the one thing I don’t care to remember!” He squeezed me, tightly. “I remember scraps, and usually only in my dreams. Those dreams, when I remember them, make me so bally miserable that I’m not right the rest of the day.” He replied. “Today was one of those days, the worst one yet, I rather think. Still, it’s something, I suppose. You’re absolutely right.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing back the demons once more.

Again, I buried my nose in his hair and kissed him, reassuringly. “Shall we face it together, sir?”

He nodded. “You know, Jeeves… I’d sleep better with you next to me.” He eyed me, hopefully. “I wasn’t with anyone this year, but I knew what I liked, and you, dear old thing, are it, the full course meal, if you will. I know you think I rely on you too much now, but you used to like that, didn’t you?”

His words struck a chord in me that left me speechless. I could not deny that his need has always been my weakness, but he had never used that knowledge to the end of winning my favor. My resolve wavered. I had always let him lean on me. I had always guided him, subtly, with no ill effects, so would now be any different? Perhaps, I was so distraught that I was failing to trust my own instincts, and it would be grossly unfair to expect Mr. Wooster to trust me in turn if I had so little faith in myself. He needed me to be strong for him.

“I wouldn’t be brave enough to say anything if you hadn’t said what you did about that letter. I know what I want, Jeeves. I want to sort this mess out together. You say you love me, and I’ve fallen for you twice now, so won’t you just, please…”

Mr. Wooster has never been one for speeches, and his features contorted with discomfort at his lack of eloquence. The effort he was making could melt a heart of ice.

“I will, sir. I just needed you to know that I would be here for you regardless of the circumstances.” I would have said more, if Mr. Wooster had not kissed me deeply. I swooned for a moment before I returned the kiss, savoring his eagerness. This was my Bertram as I knew him, as I had despaired of having again. My fingers closed tightly on him, and my confidence soared.

“I’ve had enough remembering for today, old top.” He mumbled into my ear. “Make me forget for awhile, and we’ll start sorting it out tomorrow...”

He led me to his bedroom, and I followed, as though in a trance.


	12. Chapter 12

Mr. Wooster was bold in leading me to his bed, but once we arrived, bashfulness overtook him once more. He pressed a kiss to my lips, and then bowed his head, his hair brushing my nose and his own nose in my collar, for we were standing very close. He slipped his arms around my shoulders, and I held him by the waist, rocking him slightly against me. His breathing was hard, and his ears were red with his blushing, his body faintly trembling in excitement against me. I had known this shyness once before, and the thought that I was, in a sense, to take his virginity twice in his eyes sent a shiver of lust through me.

I kissed his temple, where the red, ragged scar began, and lowered my lips to his ear. “Are you certain that you want this, sir?” I whispered, genuinely concerned.

He nodded fiercely. “Yes, dash it! I want…” He raised his wide, blue eyes to meet me.

I allowed myself a small, teasing grin. “What is it that you would like, sir?”

He blushed furiously, and broke my gaze. Mr. Wooster is more suited to action than words, and his hands began to scramble over me, seeking a piece of clothing to undo, a button, a shirt tail, it seemed not to matter which. I took a step back, and loosened his tie. He allowed me to undress him with as much reverence as I applied to layering the garments on him. His fingers hurried to undo my own buttons, and I helped him speed the process, allowing him to press a trail of kisses against my bare throat. I finished my task, and gently pushed him back onto the mattress.

“Jeeves…” he sighed, his eyes half lidded with lust. I gazed at him, spread before me, and sucked in my breath. I must confess that I have lost count of the number of fantasies this man has inspired in my mind, but even my darkest, most powerful fancies are nothing compared to seeing him in the flesh. His skin is pale and soft, as only a noble born man’s can be. It is marred only by the terrible scars which he acquired at sea, and though they spoil the creamlike surface of his body, the gratitude they inspire in me, knowing that I am able to have him again despite this, make me love him all the more. His nipples are pert and pink, surrounded by a soft cloud of crisp, dark golden hair, which grows sparsely until the slight trail leading to his groin. My gaze lingered on his eager erection, which was already seeping slightly. Unable to resist, I ran the tip of my tongue over the slit, just enough to taste him, as my fingers slid up his inner thighs, where the skin was as soft as petals. His cock twitched under my lips, the slight caress being almost too much for him to bear.

“Jeeves!” he hissed, his eyes now wide open. He was straining to control his hips from thrusting under my light, teasing touches. He reached for me, a strange, small sound emitting from the back of his throat, and I crawled into position over him. He pulled me down into another fierce kiss, and urged me onto him, so that I was pinning him to the bed. One he was securely under me, he seemed content to grind against my thigh, finally shifting so that his thrusts ground into my own strained erection.

“I’ll do anything for you.” He whispered, which was probably true. Though I have shared his bed only once, I can attest that Mr. Wooster is a trusting and adoring lover, willing to dote on any desire I might have. I knew, however, that what was left unsaid was the fact that he knew precious little of what do in bed , and his offer was open to suggestions. I was wondering if he had recalled anything at all, when his hand slipped between us, making it apparent that he wished to do more than merely rut. His fingers found my shaft, and he gave it a tight squeeze, making me buck fiercely. With a bit of prodding, I rolled onto my side, and watched in amazement as he ducked down to take it into his mouth. His fumbling movements were uncertain, and as his tongue lashed against me, he threw concerned glances my way, wondering with those lovely blue eyes if he was doing everything correctly. He needn’t have worried, for I could do nothing but groan and writhe under him, the mere sight of him in such a position being the core of a fond fantasy.

“Sir…” I gasped. I had somehow taken hold of his hair, and was guiding his rhythm. Somehow I knew this was wrong, even in the throes of passion. I had fantasized about this precious encounter for so long. I was going to be a perfect, considerate lover. I was meant to be pleasing him, worshiping him, but he had thwarted my plans by enthusiastically reducing me to a desperate creature of need. He pulled away at one point to catch his breath and rub his sore jaw, and I used the moment to regain my control and pull him up against my chest. I pinned him to me with my left arm, and used my right hand to take hold of him and stroke him, pausing to gently pinch the head, to roll his foreskin back and forth between my fingertips. He cried out, and gripped his hand over mine, urging me forward.

“You liked that, when we made love that night.” I whispered in his ear, huskily. “I will never forget what you like, Bertram." Another pinch, just a bit harder this time, and he moaned. “I will always give you what you want in the end.” I continued pulling him off until his back arched, and his seed sprayed across my fingers. His heart thundered against the grip of my palm, and I licked a bead of sweat coursing down the side of his throat.

He turned in my arms, pressing a deep kiss to my lips. His hand had found my shaft again, and he finished me off, whispering endearments against my lips between kisses.

I clutched him to me like a lifeline. The room stilled at last, and I focused on the sound of our breathing, becoming softer and deeper each moment.

“Thank you, Jeeves.” He whispered, smiling as he cupped the side of my face with his hand. It seemed bizarre that he should thank me, when I had done nothing but ache and want for so long.

“Not at all, sir.” I replied, not masking the volume of affection in my voice. He clung to me, lazily kissing my chest here and there, until he dozed. I brushed back his hair with my fingertips, gratitude steeling into a new found pride as I regarded my prize. It seemed impossible that I had won him, twice. This lovely, sweet, noble man loved me, desired me. I was the only one to ever see him in such a state, and I knew that his loyalty was such that it would remain that way as long as I saw fit.

I basked in these happy thoughts, and I must have drifted off as well, for I awakened to find that he was clinging to me in his sleep , sobbing quietly, caught in the vice of a nightmare. I pulled him against my chest, and kissed his brow. I rubbed my hand across his back, smoothing his hair and murmuring reassurances until he stilled in my arms, and slept soundly once again. I knew that he must have suffered similar episodes for months, perhaps every night, and I felt a deep remorse for not being able to comfort him before now. With a sigh, I drifted off to sleep again, to wake at dawn, when I was accustomed to rising, perhaps a few minutes earlier, even. Mr. Wooster would be hungry after his exertions, and we had forgone dinner for each other’s company. I told myself that a particularly impressive meal would do wonders to quell any shadows of the nightmare from his mind in the morning.


	13. Chapter 13

It was late afternoon by the time Mr. Wooster returned from his appointment with Sir Roderick Glossop, and I had made a fresh pot of tea after the first had gone cold. I was concerned, for Mr. Wooster never missed our shared meal. His gloomy expression upon arriving confirmed my suspicions. I greeted him as usual, however, taking his hat and closing the door behind him. When I turned to him once more, he pressed his lips to mine, and sighed under his breath.

Mr. Wooster does not like to discuss delicate matters without being comforted first. “Your tea is waiting, sir.” I said, gently, lightly taking him by the arm and leading him to the kitchen. At these words, a bit of brightness returned to his eyes.

“Jeeves, you are truly a marvel.” He purred, sinking into his chair and helping himself to a plate of sandwiches. I poured his tea, and his fingers curled gratefully around the cup. He sipped it in silence for a moment, eyes sliding shut as though gathering his strength. “Oh, love.” He sighed.

“Are the sandwiches particularly to your liking today, sir?”

This made his lips quirk in a wry grin, as I’d hoped. “They are always superb, old thing. You know what I meant. I spend the afternoon on eggshells, then wandered about the city like a lost, miserable child trying to find its mother in order to clear my head, and when I finally come home and set eyes on you, it is as though the clouds have parted and the warmth of the sun is on my face once again.”

Mr. Wooster’s praise always fills me with warmth, but now was not the time to bask in it. “What happened today, sir? What did you and Sir Roderick speak about?” I kept my tone gentle, and plied him with more tea, which he readily accepted.

A crease formed between his brows as he drew them together. “It was more what we didn’t speak about, Jeeves. It was positively dreadful. I sat there like a dumb chump looking at my shoes, and he asked me questions that didn’t seem to go anywhere. After five minutes of small talk about how I’ve been adjusting, it was dashed awkward, as I haven’t remembered a thing, aside from some traces of my life with you. I certainly couldn’t tell him that, Jeeves.”

“No, sir.”

“And that’s another thing, you see. He has a particular way of asking these questions, you know, and I’m afraid that I’ll let my guard down, and…”

A haunted look entered his eyes, pain blending seamlessly with terror. “You are afraid that you will tell him something that will lead him to discover the truth about what has developed between us.” I finished for him, quietly.

“Yes.” He answered, in a small, shaky voice. “And he’d tell Aunt Agatha. What if he locks me up? He’d lock you up. I’d never see you again. I couldn’t bear it!” He was visibly shaking by now, and I rose to comfort him. As I approached, he threw his arms about my waist and buried his face in my chest, emitting a shuddering sigh of dread into my jacket. I held him against me, and leaned down to kiss the crown of his head.

“I would never allow our separation, sir.” I began, in a steady tone. He sniffed, and cleared his throat, before casting his eyes hopefully to me.

“Oh, love…” he repeated, gratitude etched into his tone.

“Mr. Glossop is a proud man, sir, and especially devoted to his work. I imagine it must frustrate him to make so little progress with you when Mrs. Gregson expects so much from him.”

“So you’re saying we’re both in the same boat, so to speak?” he pouted, thoughtfully.

“In a sense, sir, yet not entirely. Remember that you cannot let yourself become too casual or comfortable when speaking with him. What we must do is to simulate the illusion that you are recovering at considerably more rapid rate than you presently are.”

“I see.” He said. I could see him regaining his calm as I laid the plan before him, so trusting and confident in my abilities was he. It made me proud, and more determined than I had thought possible.

“I shall tell you stories, sir, which you have told me about your past, and your childhood. You shall relay bits and pieces to Sir Roderick, and, if any make their way back to Mrs. Gregson, she will be able to verify their validity. This, combined with your admirable adjustment to your everyday life, will speed the time you will be required to spend with him.”

“You know, Jeeves, I think this wheeze of yours just might work.” He smiled. “Not that I’d doubted you, of course.” He added, hastily.

“Of course not, sir.”

“One is prone to nervous outbursts in times like these.”

“Undoubtedly, sir.” I cleared the table, and began to rub the tense muscles of his neck. I searched my memory for facts about those closest to him. “When you were a child, sir, you spent much of your time away from school at Brinkley Court with Mrs. Travers. Your cousin Angela was your constant companion. You were quite the little gentleman, from what I understand. You usually deferred to her choice of recreation and did not play rough like most boys your age might have. Even now, you remain close. I see the regret in her eyes when she visits, sir, that you do not remember her quite as you once did. Perhaps if you were to invite her to luncheon soon, she could tell you more, which you could relay to Sir Roderick.”

A small frown came to his face. “Poor girl.” He mused. “I had no idea the old girl felt as bad as all that.” He leaned into my fingers as I found a particularly tense knot. “You know what, Jeeves, you’re right, I shall, and not just for this Glossop business, either.“

His determination pleased me, he had, to this point, been somewhat withdrawn and intimidated by the scope of his previous life. “Very good, sir. I believe that this will help you.”

“Maybe we’ll even make a quick stop down to Brinkley, what?” he asked, acclimating to the idea. “Such a topping place, isn’t it? It’s about the time of year that those flowers bloom, too, those lavender thingumies I like, you know-“

“Hyacinths, sir?”

“Yes, those are the chaps. The hyacinths are at their peak, and in the morning, when you throw open that largeish window, their scent comes in with a bit of sun, and I see you lean over me with my tea, and it’s like all of the pieces of a puzzle fitting together to make the loveliest picture in the world. It’s just the thing that I need in my life right now.”

“Sir.” I began, stopping for a moment to caress his cheek, “You just remembered something, all on your own.”

He startled in his seat, and his eyes widened in delight. “By Jove, I did! Jeeves, get the suitcases ready, will you. I’ll call Aunt Dahlia and tell her to expect a visit from her favorite nephew."

He hummed with excitement as he bound out of the kitchen. “Very good, sir.” I replied, but I doubt that he heard me.


	14. Chapter 14

Mr. Wooster insisted on driving to Brinkley Court, having consulted a map and declaring the route fairly straightforward. I would, of course, be by his side the entire journey, so there was little danger in him losing his way, even if he did not remember his many previous outings. I strapped our luggage into the back of the two-seater, and opened the door for him. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, idling the engine, and peering at the wheel and gear shift in a thoughtful way which made me reconsider allowing him to drive for a moment; but he took hold of the wheel with a sunny smile which convinced me to hold my judgment until the end of the road.

“Bally marvelous, this.” He said, pressing his thigh against mine as we drove. I was inclined to agree. I listened to him chatter throughout the journey, and was pleased to note that he did not consult the map once, but drove with the utmost confidence.

Upon arriving, Mr. Wooster was greeted by Mrs. Travers, while I drove the car around to the garages. It had been almost two years since I had been at Brinkley Court, and I found that I had missed it, for of all the country houses of Mr. Wooster’s various friends and relations which we visited, it was here where I found myself the most esteemed and integrated. Mr. Seppings was waiting for me at the door, ready to lend a hand to help me with the luggage. First, we deposited Mr. Wooster’s bags in the room which he had spoken so fondly of the day before, and then, carrying my own sole suitcase, he led me to the upper level of the servants’ hall. Since becoming a regular visitor, I had endeared myself to Mrs. Travers in such a way in that my accommodations had increased in luxury throughout the years, from a shared room with another guest’s valet to my own quarters, a single room smaller than Mr. Seppings' rooms, but of a similar quality.

Mr. Seppings paused in the doorway as I began to unclasp my suitcase. After pausing for a moment to marshal his thoughts, he spoke. “I think that what you’ve done, sticking by Mr. Wooster through all of this, is an admirable thing, Mr. Jeeves. Some people might imply that he is a bit weak in the head, but he’s a good boy, isn’t he, and he was right to leave all that he did to you, especially seeing how you’re taking such good care of him now that he’s ill.”

I fought back an unexpected blush. “Thank you.” I managed. “It is our duty to look after them, after all.”

“Indeed, it is.” He nodded, heartily, for I knew how fond he was of Mrs. Travers. After nearly thirty years of service, Mr. Seppings considered Brinkley Court his home, and Mrs.Travers as a sort of family- and, as a consequence, looked with a rather benevolent eye on Mr. Wooster, as well. “We will need you to serve with us at six.”

“Of course.” I agreed, and he was gone.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Perhaps the best thing about being a valet to a bachelor is that your domain is so small, and easy to control. Even before Mr. Wooster was my lover, I ran our lives with a practiced ease, and he fully understood that the flat was my domain to rule. It is much different in a country house, for even if the wife of the house is willing to leave the household management to the capable hands of her butler, the staff itself is another factor completely. Even a well managed staff can have its problems in working as a cohesive, integrated whole to the benefit of the house. The staff at Brinkley Court are, generally speaking, well bred, pleasant, and hard working, but they are still servants; and even a fellow servant such as myself is considered an outsider after such a lengthy absence, and, I soon discovered, my brief decent into the ranks of the nouveau riche.

I was nearing the kitchen, when I heard my name. I stilled, listening for a moment to see if I could determine if the conversation was something malicious, or something that would not be awkward to enter the room during. The voices were female, two scullery maids, although I could not determine from voices alone which of the two girls they might be.

A scandalized giggle arouse from the one with the higher pitched voice. “Elly! You mustn’t talk like that!” Her words were scolding, but her tone remained light.

“Can you explain why he’d be left a fortune, then? Everyone knows Mr. Wooster is crazy, but not that crazy. I’ve talked to him myself, nice sort he is, and nice young men have friends. He’s not some old geezer with no one but his servant to talk to. No, Mary, mark my words, he’s polishing more than shoes for the young master.”

My blood froze at the words. In a moment, it would flow again, and my mind would begin to reason that there are advantages to hiding in plain sight; but for a few scant seconds, the terror was agonizing.

There was more laughter from the other side of the door. “I won’t have this sort of talk about Mr. Jeeves, Elly. He’s such a dear man. Remember the time when he pulled Augustus from the lake? Or that time he gave Papa that tip at the races. I don’t care if he…” and here, she snickered again.

“Neither do I.” replied the other. “It’s just, well. It’s hard to not envy him a bit, I suppose, is all. He’s such a lucky dog, isn’t he. If Mr. Travers died, what do you suppose we’d get, aside from a letter of reference? I guess it doesn’t matter now. He’s the same as us again, isn’t he. Don’t put those sweet potatoes out in the open like that. They’re for the pie. Last week old tubby came through here and Mr. Anatole was furious!”

I backed away from the door, reversing my route to circle around the garden before returning to the kitchen. Talk such as this was typical among kitchen maids, and harmless enough, but it was unsettling, nonetheless. Never had I felt like such an outsider. I was accustomed to feeling at ease among servants as well as nobility, but right now, I still had the scent of privilege lingering on me, and I would have to earn their respect once again.

I pondered these thoughts as I served that night. These familiar faces I served with wished me no ill will. Together, we worked as a well oiled machine, as though my absence had never occurred and this was yet another weekend visit. What was pulling at my conscience was not originating from them, but from a seed of doubt deep within my own soul. It was true that I had always aspired to have the little comforts and luxuries of life that are out of reach to those born in my position, and that as Mr. Wooster’s companion and servant, I have acquired many of these pleasures in spades. Mr. Wooster is not a particularly demanding employer. He trusts me impeccably, and his sweet, generous nature is unlike any I have ever encountered. Had I been taking too many liberties with him? Had I ceased to allow him to be the master, in anything but name? It was a fine line, indeed. Our relationship was complex, with myself deferring to him in public, yet commanding our lives in private. It was a wonderful thing which had developed between us, yet, watching the way that Mr. Seppings reverently bowed to Mrs. Travers with such sincerity in his noble eyes made me feel somewhat shameful. Perhaps I was not all that I could be for Mr. Wooster.

I continued to contemplate these matters as I watched Mr. Wooster dine. Coming to Brinkley Court was a good decision. He was relaxing and becoming more like his former self in the company of his cousin and Mr. Glossop, and every moment reinforced his confidence in who he so desperately wanted to believe he was. Perhaps, then, this visit was good for me as well, for I, too needed to relearn my former place. I felt a surge of determination that I would revive the feudal spirit within myself, to serve Mr. Wooster as devoutly as I was able.

………………………………………………………………………………………

That evening, as I turned down the bedspread, Mr. Wooster’s eyes fixed on me with a lustful intent, and he pressed a kiss to my throat. His fingers had curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, and his lips were brushing against my own, before I gained control of my own ability to speak.

“Sir… we must not. Not here. It is too much of a risk.” The words came out too husky, not with the quiet authority that I wished to convey.

The quiet sadness in his eyes nearly broke my heart; so conditioned was I to respond to his need. Again, the seeds of doubt sprouted guilt within me. Mr. Wooster would nightmare, and there would be no one to hold him. Tonight, he would suffer, but tomorrow, he would spend the day with his cousin, and that was the sort of medicine that I was not able to provide.   
“I am so sorry, sir.” I said, quietly.

“No, no, Jeeves, it’s quite all right, old thing.” He slipped under the covers and picked up a paperback mystery novel. “Good night then, love.” He sighed.

“Good night, sir.” I replied, and pressed a tender kiss to his lips before tucking him into his bed.


	15. Chapter 15

The brief stay at Brinkley Court did wonders for Mr. Wooster, for he was able to talk fondly of his family and Mr. Glossop for the entire journey home. Now that I had made amends with myself regarding my relationship with the staff, my conscience rested easier, as well. The fondness in his voice when he spoke of the love and friendship he had rediscovered at his family home allowed me to forgive myself the way in which I had abandoned him at night, when the nightmares plagued him so much that the strain was still visible in his eyes the next morning when I brought him his tea.

Once we were safely ensconced in the flat, he draped his arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Jeeves.” He sighed. “I never would have gone if you hadn’t made me.”

I returned the gesture, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Do you remember any more, sir?” I asked, in as gentle of a tone as I could manage.

“I think so.” He said, after a moment. “I feel more, if that makes any sense. I don’t remember as many individual incidents, you know, but I remember the people. That’s the important bit, what?”

He pulled away from me to gaze at me with his wonderful, pale blue eyes. “Of course it is, sir.” I replied, warmly. “You may never remember everything, sir, but you must not despair. You are alive, and well, and living your life as it is meant to be.”

“With you?” he asked, shyly. He pressed a small kiss to my hand, and squeezed it.

“I am lucky enough to agree, sir.” I smiled as I returned the gesture, before separating to pour him a drink.

Mr. Wooster sat at the piano, and thoughtfully fingered a few keys. “I say, Jeeves.” He began, turning on the bench.

“Sir?”

“I suppose it’s a jolly good thing that I’ve been writing all along, isn’t it. I’d have nothing but a blank page at the start of my memoirs at the end of my life.”

“You will have many more memories, sir. To your very good health.” I placed the drink before him, and gazed fondly at him as he sipped the amber liquid. I would be sure that his future memories would be filled with contentment. I would serve him so devoutly, it could not possibly be otherwise. The resolve I had gathered at Brinkley Court still consumed me. Mr. Wooster was my precious gift, made more so that I had lost and regained him.

He placed down an empty glass, and I refilled it. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a lot of rot, you know. “

“Sir.” I recognized the quiet despair in his voice, and I was not going to let another bout of depression set upon him. “It is nothing of the sort. Your life is very important to everyone you meet… indescribably important to me.”

He blushed slightly, and drained the rest of the drink. “I know, old thing, I know. I’m sorry, I’m not looking to be pitied. I don’t want you thinking that I don’t appreciate you, or that I’m going to do old Glossop proud by ending it all. I just get a bit out of sorts when I sleep alone. “

I must have betrayed a glimmer of guilt, for he was on his feet in a moment, pressing a kiss to my lips. “It’s not your fault, Jeeves. I’m just saying all the wrong things today. I’d go back to Brinkley Court in a heartbeat. Dear old Angela! You were absolutely right, Jeeves, the girl is a delight, a tonic for the soul. ”

“Would you like to lie down now, sir?” I asked, brushing back his hair with my fingers. The ridge of scar tissue had faded from an angry red to a deep pink, but it was still raised, cordlike, to the touch.

“Would I?” he exclaimed, a smile spread across his expressive features, as a glint of mischief entered his eyes. “I’ve been deprived of a proper rest for too long. More to the point, I’ve been deprived of what comes before a proper rest!”

Even after so many months, Mr. Wooster’s lustful appetite continues to surprise me. Innocent to the last, I had initially thought that his desires simply weren’t as pronounced as they are in most men; yet, as we became involved, I was proven wrong. Although he might be bashful in his requests, he never rejects an advance, and often initiates sessions of lovemaking with impatient, hopeful glances, or playful jokes, as though he did not know that I would grant him any desire with but one word. Surely, by now, he must know.

Upon reaching the bedroom, I undressed Mr. Wooster, layer by layer, folding the clothing properly. He allowed my precise ways, so I knew that his hunger was not yet as sharp as it might be. I removed my own garments, and turned down the bedspread. There would be no need for night clothes, this time.

I settled into the bed, wrapping my arms around him. He buried his face into my chest and heaved a contented sigh. “I couldn’t sleep properly without you. I can’t even remember my nightmares.” He gave a bit of a bitter chuckle here, and leaned back, to face me. “For once, I’m glad to forget…” His hands slid down my sides, and a small smile curved at the corner of his lip.

“Let me atone for leaving you to your nightmares, sir.” I whispered, following his lead by trailing my fingers down his flank, cupping his buttocks with the palms of my hands. “Tell me, my Bertram, any filthy little thing you’d like, and I shall see to it.”

I was satisfied to see that my ploy had worked, by invoking his name and speaking so directly, he shivered, ever so slightly, under my touch. His eyes were eager, yet hesitant, filled with questions not asked. “Anything, Jeeves.” He replied, meekly.

I smoothed his hair again, and lowered my eyes. “I will not judge you , sir. I would not object to anything you might suggest. I am not a naive man, and I am quite certain that I would be willing to comply with your wishes.” I kissed his temple, and murmured into his ear. “Tell me, sir. Tell me the darkest thing you can think of.”

His fingers curled into my hair, and he briefly met my eyes before breaking contact to speak. “I suppose the worst of it… I’ve told you about Sid, haven’t I. That he was fond of the fillies of questionable breeding. “

I nodded, not speaking, but encouraging him to continue. Already, I was on guard, for if Mr. Green had, in any way, abused my master, I would see that he would he would pay dearly by my own hands. I held my judgment with my tongue, and waited for Mr. Wooster to continue.

“He’d bring them home, from the theater, he’d say, but sometimes I think they were more common than that. He used to offer me a turn with them, especially when he’d waste so much of our money on those bally girls, but I just couldn’t. I mean, I know they weren’t ladies by any stretch of the imagination, but, Jeeves, they were still… unmarried, you know. It’s not right. You just can’t do that sort of thing to a girl who’s not your wife, even if she’s of the people, so to speak.”

“You remained a true gentleman, sir, even without your memories.” I replied, caressing his skin in a soothing motion.

“I didn’t, though.” He said, in a small voice. “Sometimes, I’d watch. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t obvious about it, you know, but sometimes it got so rowdy that I had a bit of a peek into the parlour. And sometimes, he’d have them bent over the sofa. He’d hike up their skirts and bugger them.”

He was almost whispering at this point, and his pale blue eyes were dilated, the very thought of the act itself stirring his blood.

“He had a vial of oil, and he’d… he’d go at them with his fingers. And he’d bugger the girls. I’d watch him.” Mr. Wooster’s eyes closed in embarrassment, and after a moment he smiled at me. On one hand, the thought of Mr. Wooster’s lustful fantasy hinging on that scoundrel oiling his cock for a prostitute sickened me, but I quickly placed my personal resentments aside. The most powerful fantasies, after all, are the ones that hold a bit of bitterness in their wake; and what Mr. Wooster wanted was not Mr. Green, but a simple, base act. I was more than willing to comply.

“Would you take me in such a way, sir?” I asked, lowering my voice to a husky tone. “Would you bugger me, Bertram?”

His reply was a strangled sound of want, and I marveled how such a common sexual act could inspire such desperation in a man. With a deep kiss, I slid out of the bed, and padded to the bathroom, where a quick inspection of the medicine cabinet turned up a small pot of petroleum jelly. I returned to find him standing by the bedside awkwardly, although no less aroused. I opened the jar, and braced myself on the bed frame. I knew exactly what to do, having learned from two footmen when I was thirteen in the wine cellar of the house where I was employed. They had taught me all that I know, in exchange for showing them how well I had learned it, a satisfactory agreement all around.

“Please, sir.” I waited, and after a moment, he complied, greasing his fingers and pressing them against me. I did not speak, for speaking would be awkward. Little by little, he became bold, placing kisses down my spine as he inserted a finger into me, and then another, feeling cautiously and curiously. Soon, he had found the bundle of nerves within me, and I was riding his hand, rocking back onto his greased fingers with an occasional involuntary whimper. Mr. Wooster’s breathing was hard and irregular, and I could tell that he was mesmerized by the sight. I was pleased to be serving Mr. Wooster in a way that no one else could, giving him exactly what he needed at this moment in time. I was devoutly serving the man that I loved, and surely this distraction would be enough to ward off his bout of depression, aside from enjoying the act immensely myself.

Soon, Mr. Wooster broke my train of thought by replacing his fingers with his shaft, and I yelped as he pushed in to the hilt, the generous lubrication saving me from considerable pain. He was grasping my chest tightly, and his breath was rasping as he withdrew, thrusting again, not so deep, and again, finding a rhythm with a few experimental thrusts. I pressed down on him, and bucked my hips, spurring him on. Unskilled though he was, I was enjoying the tryst more than my past encounters. Surely it was because I loved Mr. Wooster, that I was serving a need of this broken man whom I loved. It certainly wasn’t a base desire to degrade myself to the level of a slave…

Until Mr. Wooster’s movement’s became too frantic, and, to keep from throwing himself off of me, his hands landed squarely on me, one bracing my shoulder, one on my throat…

If those fingers had closed on my throat, there is no doubt in my mind that I would not have stopped him. I would have suffered anything for his pleasure at that moment. His hand on my throat , his grunts and gasps in my ears, his seed filling me, all served to remind me that the man that I called my master was nothing less. In his absence, what had I done but mourn? In my life, what did I do but serve? Every day, I guided our lives, but tonight, I was his, in every possible way.

It was over all too quickly, and Mr. Wooster, wide eyed, pressed against me and covered me in kisses.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concern filling his voice.

“shh.” I untangled our limbs. “I am fine, sir.”

“That was bally well amazing, you know.” He said, smiling up at me. “But you know… I’d like to try it again sometime, if you don’t mind. I mean, with you doing the buggering. It felt like heaven, but I missed feeling the weight of my man bearing down on me. You just feel so safe and stable. Without that, I feel like I’m drifting away.”

I considered his words, and they rang true, for I had often thought that Mr. Wooster’s spirit keeps me from sinking. Too exhausted and sore to begin a philosophical conversation, I pulled him close. “Perhaps you should close your beautiful eyes, sir, and regain the sleep you have lost this week.”

As usual, he obeyed me, and was asleep within minutes. Contented with my progress, I allowed myself a rest, as well.


	16. Chapter 16

I was so deeply involved in my own reading one evening, that I failed to notice the paperback slip from Mr. Wooster’s fingers as he passed into slumber beside me. Hearing the faint flutter of pages as he shifted alerted me, and as I retrieved the book to place on the nightstand, I paused to admire his features, still for once in sleep. Faint lines had come to his brow and eyes while he had been living in his unfortunate situation, lines one could not notice when he was awake, for all the animation his customary expressions held. His skin was still petal smooth, his nose, daintily carved like delicate china, his dark, honey tinged lashes fluttering lightly against his cheek as he dreamed. I stroked my finger against that beloved cheek, and found my fingers damp.

“Sir?” I kept my voice soft, comforting. Gently I shook his shoulder. A whine emitted from his throat, forming my name. I pulled him into my lap and gave a firmer shake. Mr. Wooster came to his senses, gripping the fabric of my pajama shirt in vice-like fingers. For a long while, we stayed as such, wordlessly embraced, with Mr. Wooster clutching and curling close, myself supporting him, running my palm smoothly down his spine.

“Jeeves?” He untucked his chin to peer up at me.

“Sir?”

His expression was guarded, uncertain. “I had a bally rotten dream, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.” I ran my fingers through the strands of his hair, slightly dampened by his distress. “Would you like to discuss it, sir?”

“I don’t know.” He replaced his face into the crook of my neck, and patiently, I waited.

“Jeeves… I dreamed that there was another man.” His voice was small, and guilty, for he knew better than to accuse me of such.

“There is no one but you, my Bertram.” I said, smoothly. He nodded miserably. I reminded myself that dreams were irrational, and that his trust in me was complete.

“I dreamed that you accused me… of going around with Sid. I didn’t, you know. I didn’t, not even when I forgot you, I kept to myself. I always did. I’m so sorry that I forgot you.” He broke off with a sob that he failed to suppress deep in his throat. I tightened my grip, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to come together.

“It was not your fault that you forgot, my love.” I whispered, as he shook, sternly forcing himself to cease his trembling and sniffling. “It wouldn’t be your fault if you had found his company pleasing.” Anyone but him, I thought, almost sick to my stomach at the thought of such low rabble touching my master. I sighed into his hair, grateful that he had come back to me both alive and unattached.

“I can’t be with anyone but you, see.”

“And I, you, sir.” He had stilled in my arms, and was now pressing close in a way expressing more affection than fear.

“How will I do without you when you go away for your fishing?” he murmured, ruffling the hair at the nape of my neck. The final piece fell into place with a satisfying click.

“I will not be taking my leave this year, sir.” I replied.

“But Jeeves, you must!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done so much for me, I just can’t…”

Mr. Wooster never wanted me to go, it was true; but it was proper to take two weeks time and I had always enjoyed it immensely, even without his presence. In the future, I would need to take the usual holiday alone in order to keep from arousing suspicion about relations between us, but I had not planned on doing so this year; not when he was so vulnerable, not when I still wanted nothing but to see him every second of every day, safe and real.

“You need me, sir.” I reminded him. “Herne Bay will remain as it is for yet another year.”

“Perhaps a shorter holiday, then.” Mr. Wooster managed, glancing up at me shyly, “As I’ll always need you, you know. If I get out of practice, it will be harder to let you go next year.” I could see the quiet guilt in his eyes, that which had nagged at him until it had become an irrational, out of proportion nightmare. He did not wish to wrong me.

“Perhaps, sir.” I relented. “We shall discuss it as the time comes nearer, but I would prefer a short, local stay. It is important to me that I stay close at hand, and that I might, this time, return to you with expedience.”

“I worry that I’ll drive you away, needing you so much.” He whispered. “Without you, I’d have no clue to who I am, and no place at all in the world. You deserve the grandest holiday imaginable, old thing. I should be letting you safari, or sail the world, not piddle about in a country inn.”

I tilted his chin and smiled, allowing him to see the gleam of lust in my eyes. “Tell me, my Bertram, what is more pleasurable than feeling needed? Indulge me, sir, let me stay close, let me feel like a man.” It was a ploy, but it was also the truth. When those incredibly blue eyes dilated and those soft, pink lips parted under my words, there is no expedition that could have tempted me from his side. With the matter settled, I switched off the lamp, and took my right as his man.


	17. Chapter 17

It was late afternoon, and Mr. Wooster and I walked through the old, rough neighborhood he had called home during our separation. Our pressed, tailored garments, while far from our finest, stood out in stark contrast to the working classes that wove about the street around us. They are usually too absorbed in their own affairs to spare us any notice, although the women are quite often swayed by Mr. Wooster’s elegance. I stayed close, watching the inhabitants with perhaps a bit more suspicion than they deserved, for it was not yet dark. Mr. Wooster, however, moved with a casual, but marked purpose; his hands in his pockets, his shoulders bent slightly forward, showing no fear or unease in these surroundings. He had promised me that he would not venture to this part of town alone. Once I had agreed to accompany him, he began to request these outings perhaps more frequently than I would like.

I gave him a despairing, pleading look as he ducked into a grimy pub and gestured for me to follow. Refusing to let him out of my sight for even a moment, I obeyed, and was relieved to find that the filth stopped in the coatroom, revealing a spacious, dimly lit interior that was cozy and dry. “Trust me, Jeeves.” He smiled, and of course, I would do anything for that.

We were met by the proprietor, who declared Mr. Wooster a “big man, now”, and when he answered to the name John, I felt myself wince. Drinks were placed before us, and once again the odd isolation of the place engulfed us. Dim lights, high backed wooden booths, and the distant din of a hundred voices in conversation created the illusion of solitude, the solitude of self absorption. Mr. Wooster, who had been grinning at me over his tankard, frowned. “Jeeves, what is it, old thing? The soupiness has left your voice and has risen clear up to your eyeballs. Whatever it is, I’ll get rid of it right now. Is it the tie, perhaps? Or maybe the hat?”

There was playfulness in his voice, yes, but also worry. I could not allow him to be troubled. I should not have allowed him to sense my own discomfort. “It will pass directly, sir.” I managed. “I am not accustomed to this neighborhood, and I worry.”

“It’s quite a safe street.” He assured me.

I nodded. I knew that I was formidable enough that most thieves would think twice before confronting us, but I did not know how to tell him what I truly dreaded, that we would meet someone from his past, someone, or something, that would draw him back into this cesspool, and away from me. It was at this time when I realized that Mr. Wooster’s hands were clasped around my own. I drew mine back, as though it had been in scalding water.

“No one cares here.” He said, quietly. “Not about something that small, anyway. It’s so dark and loud, and everyone so drunk…” he coughed, slightly embarrassed. “They say families start here, sometimes. So I’d jolly well like to hold your hand. Under the table, even.”  
I relented, slipping my hand out of sight. His fingers twined in mine, and squeezed lightly. “I want you to know everything about me, Jeeves. I want you to see this, too. No one else knows quite where I was all that time.”

I rubbed my thumb soothingly over his hand. “You have a brave, strong soul, sir.”

He laughed, bitterly. How I hated that laugh, the laugh that comes from John’s throat. How I wanted him to perish, and leave me my innocent Bertram. “I was always terrified, Jeeves. I was always wishing for my savior.”

With those words, the mask was thrown to the ground, and my sweet Bertram remained, the man who lived so strictly by his self enforced Code that he would endure anything, all the while trusting that the world held justice that would prevail in the end if only one acted nobly.

“Sir…”

“My savior came for me.” He whispered, thickly.

I felt my face turning the brightest red, and once more, I gripped his fingers.   
“I want to take you away from here, sir. It feels like a nightmare that I will lose you to.” The words where difficult, like passing gravel through my throat. Mr. Wooster grew quiet, so long that I thought he was upset.

“I think I’m ready to go, old thing.” He replied, at last. “I’ll follow you anywhere, from now on, what?”

I must confess that I was not expecting the surge of possessiveness that shook through me at his words. Finally, I had wrenched him free; I would draw him back into my world, and anchor him so securely that he would never drift again.


	18. Chapter 18

As I stood on the dock gazing at the ship we were about to board, trepidation stirred in my heart once more. I stole a sidelong glance at Mr. Wooster. His expression was that of pleasant determination, his eyes steady and clear beneath the brim of his hat. “Are you certain of this, sir?” I asked, quietly, for perhaps the fifth time that day, and the hundredth that week.   
His mouth quirked into a small, scolding frown. “Of course I am, Jeeves. We’ve discussed it, haven’t we?”

I nodded. We had discussed this trip at great length, indeed. Unwilling to leave Mr. Wooster for my annual leave, he had suggested that he travel with me, and perhaps, once we had quit the continent for England, that he should leave me a few days to myself and await my return to London.

The ship had seemed a good idea at the time; for Mr. Wooster and I both loved to travel overseas, and the shorter trip would be essential before I could be assured that he would not suffer anxiety on an extended trip in the future. Already, we had taken a short ferry ride together, braced against the wind on the top railing, with no ill effects. I decided that I would not ask him any more questions. It might crack the brave mask that I was sure he was wearing.

Our cabin was first class, or course, and contained two luxurious, though narrow, beds, and a locking door. Mr. Wooster’s traumatic experience allowed us an excuse to share quarters, of which I was grateful, for I had not yet grown comfortable with letting him out of my sight for more than an hour at a time. Having stowed our belongings, I escorted Mr. Wooster to the fine dining hall, where he would be served while I took my own meal one deck below. I ate very little, and left to wander near the railings and gaze at the sea.

Once, the sea had called to me, the endless rippled surface promising wonders I could scarcely imagine. It had always calmed me, soothed me, assured me of my connection with the world, somehow. I imagined the rocking of the ship in sync with the beating of my heart, the ebb and flow of the water at one with the blood in my veins. Now, for the first time, I eyed it with wariness alongside my wonder; remembering how my beloved ocean had betrayed me, and snatched Mr. Wooster from my stiff, freezing fingers. Now, each dip of the ship in the water matched a twinge in the pit of my stomach. I must go to him, I had been away too long.

Had I consulted my watch, I would have realized it had scarcely been three quarters of an hour since I had delivered him. I stood rigid my the entrance of the hall, willing myself not to pace to and fro. At long last, Mr. Wooster appeared, sated by his meal and in good spirits.

“Did they treat you well down there, Jeeves?” he asked, as he closed the door to our cabin behind him. “Five course meal, good wine, and all?” The familiar glint of anxious guilt shone in his eyes. Mr. Wooster hated to think of me being treated as his inferior, although he understood that as a valued servant, I was treated quite well by all.

The meal had been simpler by far, but I nodded. I recalled a chop and boiled potatoes, with a side of apple tart. I had been distracted, and had not tasted what I had eaten, but it was a reassuring weight in my stomach. “It was more than adequate , sir. “ I replied.

“If only we didn’t have to live as master and servant.” He sighed. “I wish I could have dined with you.”

“It is fortunate that such roles are in place, sir.” I said, as gently as I could. “Your social status enables you to keep me in your home. I would not trade that for any title or prestige.”

His eyes softened. “Our home, Jeeves.” He corrected me, and bit his lip in thought. “ I say, are you truly content with your lot in life? Surely, the care and feeding of this idiot is beyond someone with your abilities.” He muttered. “All the bally wonderful things you do for me, Jeeves…”

I sat beside him, and pulled him into my lap. “It is the only life which I would willingly choose, sir, and you are by no means an idiot."

He curled against my chest then, and after a moment, his lips were on me quite suddenly, trailing lavish kisses from my lips to my earlobe. “If only I could make you…” he trailed off, looking down.

“I will do anything you ask of me.” I said, simply.

Mr. Wooster smiled meekly, and shook his head. “We can’t get ahead of ourselves, Jeeves. Not here, it’s too risky.”

I nodded in agreement. Tomorrow, we would settle into our rented cottage in a quaint French village, where it would be quite safe to share a bed and dine together. For now, we must be careful. Neither of us trusted the locked door of our cabin for more than the most basic security. There was simply too much at stake.

Once I had put Mr. Wooster to bed, I took my place in the adjacent bunk, and admired the sight of him in the sliver of moonlight provided by the porthole. After a moment, Mr. Wooster extended his arm, twined his fingers into mine, and indulged me in a sleepy smile. With the warmth of his hand in mine, and the steady beat of his pulse under my thumb, I fell into a pleasant slumber.

***

He was screaming for me. Sharp pain stabs in my lungs as they fill with the icy water, and I can no longer feel my hands. Bits of debris are alight with flame, the only light on the dark, choppy water. I cannot feel my arm. The flames are close, close enough to illuminate Mr. Wooster’s golden hair as he struggles to keep afloat. Is my arm the source of the flames? I can no longer differentiate between heat and cold. Everything is the same, a numb pain spreading out from my chest, my lungs unable to take in the air needed to call for him, and I think desperately only to save him, he is dying, my master is slipping under, and my master must live!

I grapple an oar from another life boat, tearing it from the hands of a terrified woman, kicking her vessel aside with the last of my strength so that she cannot wrest it from me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for you, madam, but my master must live. Please forgive me, madam. I am choking on grimy smoke and salt water, blindly reaching out with ill gotten prize, gasping for Mr. Wooster to grab hold. Please, Lord, let my master hold on. Please spare him. Please forgive me…

I did not know where I was at first. It was warm, and soft, and Mr. Wooster’s arms encased me. His melodic voice was murmuring comforting, nonsense words, and his long, delicate fingers were wiping gently at my cheek. The only pain in my chest was that of grief, and I realized with relief and some embarrassment that I had been dreaming. The soft cooing in my ears formed into words I could understand.

“Jeeves, shh, my love, please wake up, it’s just a dream, my love…”

I stilled, and ceased my tears, but did not trust myself to speak. His fingers continued to stroke back my hair, and down my cheek.

“… safe, my love…”

A moment or two more, and I was able to find my voice. ‘Sir.. oh, sir, you are with me.” I pushed away the images that had burned against my eyelids moments before.

He nodded. “You were talking.” he said, sadly. “I shouldn’t have suggested this trip. I thought it would be okay.”

I cleared my throat, and assumed what little dignity I could muster. “I will be composed directly, sir.”

“You needn’t be.” He protested.

“I did not consider this outcome, sir. I had worried about your dreams extensively, but not my own.” I was shamed by my weakness. What if Mr. Wooster had also dreamed such horrors? I had to be strong.

“I haven’t had any nightmares.” He confessed. “It must be hard to dream of what I can’t remember, what? There’s a silver lining right there. I’m sorry that I didn’t even think about what it must be like for you, love. You suffered the same as I have, but you bear it alone.”

“I am no longer alone, my Bertram.” This coaxed a smile from his soft lips, which in itself was a balm to my frayed nerves.

“Will you be all right for the rest of the night, Jeeves? And the trip back?” he asked, worriedly.

I was determined to overcome the ghosts of my fears, so I nodded, and settled back into his arms. “As long as you are by my side.” I declared. In the safety of his embrace, I was able to sleep for several hours. When we once again set foot upon dry land, it was with a feeling of victory. It was a small battle fought within myself, but I had won it.


	19. Chapter 19

There was barely a glint of cool, blue dawn through the cottage windows when I awoke, early even for my own routine. Mr. Wooster huddled beside me, wrapped snugly in the soft, faded quilt covering the old iron bed which we shared. I took a moment to enjoy the serene moment, wrapping my arms around him and listening to the unfamiliar, wild sounds of a dozen types of birds calling mingled with the scuffling of small wildlife. We would never be so bold in England as to share a bed so near the ground and an open window, no matter how desolate the grounds were. It was an odd, soothing feeling which I wished to commit to my memory.

At last, I carefully eased out of bed, and dressed in only my shirtsleeves and trousers. Mr. Wooster had insisted that I not bring my uniform, and not serve him as I might at home. It was, after all, my annual holiday. Even so, I felt naked as I arranged the breakfast tray in such attire. I might not serve him as I do at home, but I found that I could not bear the thought of Mr. Wooster not having his morning tea, at the very least, while I was with him.

He would not be awake for several hours, so I gathered my tackle and padded onto the small wooden dock outside the kitchen door. The lake was gloriously clear and cool, and so large that not another cottage was in sight. Far in the distance, I could see another dock, with a small boat tethered to it, but that was all. Scarcely a mile away, a sizable village thrived, yet one would never suspect that from such serene surroundings. It was as unlike London as could be, and I hummed to myself as I cast out the first line into the water. Within minutes, there was a persistent tug on the line, and I reeled in a sizable trench. Its olive green scales were almost black in the faint dawn, its flesh, firm and slick. Into the bucket he went, a fine luncheon he would make broiled over the hearth.

A creak on the dock behind me made me startle. Mr. Wooster leaned against the frame of the kitchen door, a wistful grin playing across his face. Had I lost track of the time? No, it was still early, too early for him to be awake. Worried, I rose.

“No, no, Jeeves.” He hastened to say, waving his hand to indicate that I not be disturbed.

“Carry on, old thing, don’t mind me. “ His smile widened, and a fond look lingered in his eyes.

“Sir, your tea…” I was halfway through the door before he stopped me with a hand on my chest.

“It can wait, and you can take your meal with me when you’re done.” He assured me. His gaze roved over me once more, and shifted to the bucket. “Jeeves, have you taken a pet?” He paced towards the end of the dock and peered down at the trench.

“I regret not, sir. That is to be our luncheon today.” I suddenly worried that he would not take that news well.

“Ah, yes, I see.” He replied. “Why is it swimming about, then?”

“One does not kill and clean the fish until it is time to prepare it, sir. It preserves the freshness and quality of the flesh.”

“How does one kill it, Jeeves? I imagined it would be quite dead once it was caught, out of the water, as it were.” He touched the surface of the water, and the fish jumped, causing a small puddle to form around the base of the pail.

“It is done quite mercifully, sir, with a sudden blow to the head.” I assured him.

He stood up straight, and stretched his back. “Well, you certainly know everything there is to know about it, Jeeves. I must say, I’ll stay inside when you do it, though. Poor chap looks a bit too much like Oofy Prosser for me to watch with a clean conscience.”

“Very good, sir.” I replied, betraying just a shade of amusement. He was silent for a few moments, and I was aware that his eyes were on me intently.

“I quite fancy you like this, you know.” He said, sitting beside me on the edge of the planks. “Your uniform is quite the thing most of the time, of course, but to see you like this is a treat." His fingers caressed my skin where I had rolled up my shirtsleeves, and he deftly undid three buttons at my collar. “I’ve a strong, handsome man, catching my dinner and providing for me.”

His eyes were soft and smoldering as he regarded me. Never before had it occurred to me that he might romanticize my humble origins as I did his nobility. I let him nuzzle the skin exposed at my throat. How odd, to feel his mouth on me in full sunlight!

“I say.” He leaned back to meet my eyes. “Fancy a dip before breakfast, old thing?”

“Sir?” Already, he had shed his robe, and was experimentally dipping his toe in the water.

“It’s warm enough, and the water seems clear and clean as a glacier.”

I frowned. “I must apologize, sir, but I had not thought to pack our bathing attire.”

“Pah! That is, to say, pshaw, and all that rot.” He exclaimed. I watched in a sort of fascinated horror as he shed the remainder of his silken pajamas . “You mustn’t be shy with me, Jeeves.” And with that, he dove in. A momentary panic overtook me in the split second before he surfaced again. Anxiety overcame me, I could not let him swim alone, not after all we’d been through. Barely thinking, I shed my own clothing and dove in after him. The water wasn’t very deep near the edge, If I stood on my toes I could just feel the smooth rock at my feet. Several yards out, the bottom vanished, leaving a wide expanse of crystalline, calm water.

It took me a moment to realize that I was enjoying myself. Mr. Wooster laughed, as he treaded water beside me. In my worries, I had forgotten that he was a strong swimmer, having rowed for Oxford and spent many irrepressible summer days at the Drones Club swimming pool. Of course he was, I scolded myself. It was the only way he could have survived what had happened.

“Sir, there is a chance we might be seen.” I warned him.

“I doubt it, unless you’re worried about the fish.” He replied. “Even if someone does come along, we aren’t likely to know them all the way out here. Besides, we’re in France, Jeeves, no one will throw us in chokey for a swim.”

I relented. The play of the sunlight on the water, the feeling of floating in the cool lake, and the simple companionship was far too agreeable to argue with. Mr. Wooster admired the speed and grace with which I dove to retrieve a hunk of quartz which he had admired through the water. He demonstrated ridiculous twirls and flips which he insisted were of the sort that the water ballet practiced in New York. We swam together to a large tree some way off, and then back again, savoring the warm sun above us and the cool current beneath.

At last, I helped him back onto the shore, where we basked in the sun, staring up at the sky. It was a bit too cool to remain, and so I suggested a warm bath before our tea. As I filled the ancient iron tub with water from the pump and heater, I wondered just how I had ever done without him on my holidays.

The warm water coursed over my pruned fingertips. He had done it, this wonderful man. He had given the water back to me, without fear. I waited for Mr. Wooster to be settled before climbing in beside him. His arms closed around me, and I closed my eyes, the feel of his skin against me and the warmth surrounding us, perfect bliss.


	20. Chapter 20

_Arrived safe in metrop. No need to worry. At Drones mostly. Aunts told I am away. Bertie._

This was the telegram I received upon waking my first morning at my cottage in Herne Bay, the official communication between us. Now that I have been casting out my nets for the shrimp for two solid days, I was eager to recover the post from the village. I had fabricated a story about handling the personal business for an ailing aunt when I let the address, for one cannot be too careful. I collected a letter from a Mrs. Beatrice Shipley, London, without any notice.

 _My love,_

 _The flat feels beastly empty without you. The days are all well enough, I suppose, but the night seems longer and colder without you beside me. It reminds me of all those dreadful nights I spent across town, only now I know what it is that I long for. When you return to me, you will know just how much I’ve missed you by the way I will kiss you, hard against your teeth and deep into your mouth, so that you shall only have enough breath to groan. I will taste your sun darkened skin and savor it, although not as much as I might enjoy the bits of you left pale… good lord, love, I can’t go on like this. I’ll drive myself mad if I continue thinking such things. Already I’m quite short of breath. If I continue in this vein, I’m afraid that I‘ll become so distracted that this will never be posted._

 _Forgive me, this love letter is not quite as grand as I’d wanted, but already I’ve burned half the papers in the desk trying to get it right, having to be careful of my words._

 _I love you, old thing. So very much._

 _B_

 

I read the missive twice through, my heart warming at the thought of Mr. Wooster carefully choosing words that would not incriminate us even as he poured his soul into ink. Mr. Wooster’s thoughts ramble, and no doubt he’d mentioned names or places that could infer our relationship numerous times before burning the evidence, or perhaps what he had written had been explicit enough to embarrass him when read back. I pressed my lips to the paper, hoping to detect a scent reminiscent of him, his spicy lime aftershave or the rich Turkish tobacco which he favored. Unfortunately, there was only the faint smell of paper and ink.

I could see how his hand tensed when he wrote of his desires, so carefully worded, and the letters bunched together tightly, quite unlike his usual flowing hand. Mr. Wooster has a side of his soul which is oddly bohemian, expressing itself chiefly in his need to write about his world and all that he considers important in unfettered speech. I could tell that he was not satisfied with the content, and that it pained him to deliver a letter to me that was less than the absolute sum of his emotions. I must assure him of its worth.

 _Beloved,_

 _Parting from you has naturally caused me a great deal of worry, however, I place explicit trust in your ability to lead your life as you once had, before our misfortunes. I was greatly touched by your missive. I could sense the devotion and love which you were not able to put into words, and these things sustain my spirit._

 _As you know, this separation is essential. Content yourself with the thoughts that you were not able to write of, my dear. I shall return to you directly. Tonight, however, I will amuse myself with dreams of what will be, much as I suspect you have done for some days now. Did you ache to touch yourself, love, when you took your pen in hand? Or were you not able to resist?_

 _Perhaps you imagined my tongue as you slicked the salve over your cock from the jar at your bedside. Would that be enough to gratify you? Perhaps for a moment, but I know your desires too well. It is far likelier that you rolled your bollocks between greased fingers, delaying satisfaction as you imagined the preparation for sodomy. Did you grip your fist tightly, as you are wont to do, so that each stroke wrings a jagged gasp from your throat? Or were you dreaming of being buggered yourself, rocking back on your slick fingers as I have taught you?_

 _Commit these words to memory, my dear, before you burn them. Consider them my promise to you._

 _I leave you now, with all the love in my heart._

 

I did not sign the letter, not even with my initials as I might a less questionable note which might be attributed to a lady of loose morals. I sealed the paper in an envelope, and neatly printed the address in London that we had let for just such occasions, care of Mrs. Beatrice Shipley. I placed the letter on the desk and leaned back in the chair, quickly undoing my flies so that I could take my cock in hand. I thought of Mr. Wooster, of his pale skin, dripping wet from the lake in France. I conjured impossibly blue eyes, soft lips, and the rugged scars marking his temple and side. I remembered his primal groans as he draped his body over mine, the heft of his cock, the frantic arch of his back as I drove him over the edge, dozens of times. I finished quickly, desperately, and within minutes I had made myself respectable enough to post the letter.

Once it was safely in the care of the Royal Mail, I informed the clerk that I would like to post a telegram.  
 _  
Will return to London by rail Tuesday evening. Jeeves._

 

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	21. Chapter 21

Mr. Wooster’s kiss was as demanding as he’d promised in his letter. No sooner than I had closed the door behind me than I found myself accosted by my master and being pressed to the doorframe with unbridled passion. I pulled him to me and returned the gesture eagerly, until the kisses became less urgent, softer and more of a comfort than a demand. He worried my lower lip with his teeth as I stroked back his hair, forgetting for several moments my hat and the suitcase at my feet. At last, he pulled back, and allowed me to enter the flat properly.

“I could not be home soon enough, sir.” I found my voice as I stood back to gaze at him. His smile spread with my words, lighting up his tired eyes and bringing a flush of happiness to his cheeks. Details began to come to me. Some attempt had been made to tidy the flat, unlike the usual squalor I usually returned to. Withered flowers had been replaced with fresh, stuck haphazardly into the vases. Equal attention was paid to his person; every detail of his dress was impeccable. He had donned the soft gray summer suit I had selected upon his return, down to the tie and waistcoat. No gaudy variation was attempted, no silver and violet checked tie, no ridiculous pencil thin moustache, no tomato red and mustard gold knit vest in sight. All was polished, from his hair to the toe tips of his shoes. I must confess that his efforts pleased me, even as they worried me. I could not ignore the fatigue in his otherwise bright expression.

“Jeeves, at last.” He sighed. He offered me a nervous smile.

“Have you had nightmares, sir?” I asked, quietly. I felt responsible, even as I assured myself that the short leave was a necessity. I had left him.

“I don’t sleep as well without you, you know that, dear old thing.” He laid his hand over mine, and gazed up at me, earnestly. “It’s all right. Really. I’m just chuffed to have you back, more than I can say. Much more.” He lowered his eyes then. “I say, I wanted to thank you. For the letter, I mean. I burned it, like you asked, but not before committing the bally glorious thing to memory.” His fingers rested on my shoulders, and I lowered my head to sigh into his hair. I wanted him, the close proximity afforded me the scents I associated with him, the heat radiating from his body, and such things made it difficult to think of much else after a week’s separation.

“I have memorized yours as well, sir. It pained me to burn it.”

He chuckled at that, and squeezed my hand. “It’s just as well, really. Bally rotten attempt it was, I think.”

“Not at all, sir.” I poured him a brandy from the sideboard, and pressed it into his hand.

“Oh, and one for yourself, as well, what?” he moved to the edge of the chesterfield, gesturing for me to sit. I barely raised an eyebrow as I did as he asked, settling myself beside him with my drink.

He drank deeply from his glass, and set it aside. “I say, Jeeves, old thing. Have you ever thought about love?”

“It is a topic which is very much on my mind while in your company, sir.” I replied, amused at how my words had made his ears turn red.

“Of course.” He stammered. “I don’t doubt that at all, love. Of course you do. You’ve proven it. I mean to say, you never gave up on this Wooster, even when the rest of the world had given me up for dead. Everything you do for me...” Again, he drank from his glass, draining the contents. I rose to refill it, but he took my hands in his own and tugged gently, leading me across the flat. “I have a surprise for you, Jeeves. Come and see, what?”

My curiosity piqued, I followed. He lead me to the guest room, and opened the door. The room I entered was not what I had left. Gone were the bed and dresser, and in its place was a handsome study. The walls had been lined with bookshelves, awaiting to be filled. In the center of the room was a long, hefty library table, polished to a golden hue, sitting atop a cream deco rug. It was flanked with two contemporary leather desk chairs, and upon it a gleaming new Underwood typewriter, a rather nicer version of what I kept in the kitchen. The chaise lounge from the bedroom remained, situated along the far wall. It was the most charming and useful room I could imagine. I stood, speechless, as he chattered behind me.

“It’s for you, love. Well, for us, I mean. I intend to write again, and you do help me edit and such, even though you could surely write much better yarns of your own that edit mine, what? The thing is, well, you see, there comes a time in a man’s life when he… I mean, dash it, Jeeves… I want to write our story from now on.”

When I turned to face him, I saw that he was lowered on one knee. I believe that is the moment I forgot how to breathe. My face was hot, my hands were ice. I was trapped by Mr. Wooster’s intense gaze, and could only think of how dearly I wanted this impossible promise, yet how unworthy I was to accept. I fear that I was mute a moment too long.

“Say ‘yes’, Jeeves.” He whispered. “if you don’t, my Reggie… “ his eyes had darkened with an uncharacteristic seriousness, tinged with fear.

He rarely used that name , and only in the heat of passion. It was enough to startle me to my senses. “Yes, sir. Please, sir!” I gasped.

His laughter was a welcome reprieve. He was on his feet in an instant, and kissing me, feverishly. His hardness pressed against my leg, and I groaned. “Shall we have the wedding night before the vows, or after?” he purred.

“I fear I cannot resist you for so long, sir.”

“Well, then!” He grinned madly. Having regained his boldness, he lightly traced the outline of my erection through my flies. I could not wait to be teased, so I began to strip him, with a hurried efficiency. My own clothing was pulled from me, and carelessly tossed aside.

“To bed, sir?” I whispered, for I was eager; frantic, even.

“Not yet, my good man. “ He fished around the discarded garments, retrieving a small jar from his waistcoat, which he placed in my hands. His eyes sparkled with teasing mischief. “First, I expect you to give me a jolly good buggering.” He spread his legs slightly, and braced the edge of the table. I do believe he takes perverse pleasure in seeing me undone, without the ability to speak, or act rationally. There was, however, an equal desperation in his eyes. I wrapped an arm around him as I prepared myself, using my spare hand to lightly stroke his pert, pink nipples. His breathing became rougher as I nibbled at the tender skin of his throat, and his knuckles went white as they grasped the table in anticipation. I slipped a slick finger inside of him, and was rewarded with a sharp, encouraging cry. It seemed only moments before he was thrusting back, riding my hand, and groaning a plea for more.

The dull ache in my groin, coupled with the urgent noises emitting from Mr. Wooster’s throat were enough to tell me that neither of us would last long this time. With a groan, I entered him, and soon we had established a frenzied rhythm. He was gasping for me with each thrust, and as I felt myself close to losing control, I took his cock in hand and pumped vigorously. Soon, his back arched, and stilled. I abandoned myself to my own needs then, thrusting deeply as I felt his seed spill over my fingers. His knees were weak as I found my own release. I pulled him to the floor and clutched him possessively as I caught my breath.

“Take me to bed.” He sighed. I was only too pleased to do so.

We exchanged countless vows that night, in sleepy contentment. I would honor him, serve him, adore him, stay by his side for all time. He would be loyal, loving, faithful, devout. Promises upon promises were made, with no fear of deceit.

\----

“I say, Jeeves, do you remember the name of what’s his name? The stout chap in the snappy trousers I wrote about that once. I do believe he’s the same blighter we met last week at Brinkley. I read about it, then put the manuscript away in the walnut whatnot, and now I can’t remember which one it is.”

“You refer to Major Barbazon-Plank, sir, a most disagreeable individual, I agree.” I retrieved the manuscript in question and set it before him, returning to the story I was typing. Mr. Wooster had kept his passion for the sordid detective stories alive, penning them occasionally along with his memoirs. The chapter I was revising was an embarrassingly eulogistic piece starring a clever, tall detective with a bent nose, his preferred hero.

In a few moments, a sharp “a-ha!” came from Mr. Wooster, and he smiled as he scratched out a sheet of notes. That particular smile indicated that he had remembered something from his past, triggered by a point in the manuscript. Every day revealed a bit more, and if he never remembered everything, he would at least have his manuscripts. Besides, as he frequently reassured me, we had the rest of our lives to look forward to remembering.


End file.
